


Even Quicker Than Doubt

by keiliss



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Coming of Age, First Meetings, Learning to trust, Lindon, M/M, letting go, there's a dog in it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-17
Updated: 2012-04-17
Packaged: 2017-11-03 20:23:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 101,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/385554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keiliss/pseuds/keiliss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set in the weeks before Elros departs for Númenor, Doubt explores the reason the twins chose different paths, Elrond’s emotional coming of age, the evolving relationship between Gil-galad and Glorfindel, and the reborn Elf’s adjustment to his new life in Second Age Lindon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I finished this in 2006. It's one of the first things I wrote and you can see that in the first seven or eight chapters. I had an urge to edit it once, but a good friend said that it needed to stand as a record of how I grew as a writer over the almost two years I worked on it, and she's right. Anyhow, I could tidy the grammar, tighten the phrasing, kill the extrenuous adjectives, but then some of the heart would be lost, and in storytelling nothing should come before heart.  
> Written with much love.

_A mouth, hot, demanding, moved slowly down his neck, sending little shocks flashing through him. Strong hands roamed over his back and shoulders, rubbing, grasping The mouth withdrew, returned to claim his lips…. Bruisingly commanding, it tasted of sweet wine… a sharp tooth caught his lip, causing a thrill of pain. Besieged, he answered desire with an uneasy hunger.  
  
A hand beneath his tunic, cool against bare flesh, began to knead his back… hard, insistent motions, drawing him closer to the body that writhed against his. He could not see the face. Ecthelion? Was it Thel?  
  
"No," he murmured. “No, not now, not yet - please no - -"  
  
The hand insisted, the mouth demanded. A sense of nameless panic overcame him and he attempted to push the other away, to struggle free..._

~~~~

Glorfindel, formerly of Gondolin, sat bolt upright gasping for breath, the covers in a heap on the floor. At the end of yet another night of broken sleep, largely spent reliving memories of family and former friends, the vivid, erotic dream of Ecthelion was simply the last straw. Forced from his bed, he splashed his face with cold water, tidied his hair and dressed, thankful the night was over.  
  
Upon leaving his rooms, he was relieved to discover that the early morning hour found most of Lindon still barely awake. Glorfindel made his way down to the informal section of the Palace gardens, an unexpected wilderness of roses, herbs and flowering shrubs. He followed a small gravel path which led to a bench facing a tiny fountain and sat, leaning back and closing his eyes. He felt desperately alone.

~~~~

For the first few weeks after Lord Námo had sent him out into the world from the coolness and silence of the Halls of Waiting, he had been fortunate to find himself in the care of Círdan of the Havens.   
  
The ancient, quietly spoken Teleri, no stranger after so long to the inexplicable ways of the Valar, had tried to help him to accustom himself once more to the unfamiliar familiar, to the noise, confusion, and haste of life on Arda.   
  
He had been to the Havens twice before in his life - more correctly his previous life - and found the contrast between known hallways and unfamiliar landscaping similar to stepping into a dream world, vaguely threatening, not quite as it should be, but lacking a dream’s promise of morning.   
  
He learned early to close his eyes, shutting out the new strangeness and drifting into a world of sounds. Sounds were safe. Seabirds called as they ever had, the water lapped at the pilings of the pier; he could almost believe he had never left.  
  
How he had come to the Havens -- how, in fact, he had returned to Middle-earth -- was a thing known but unclear to him. Known, as is the fact of one’s birth, though to claim actual memory would be an exaggeration. He was simply here, almost as he had been before.   
  
His first clear memory of this new life was waking in a boat and hearing the sounds of the sea around him. There was no fear, no confusion. He knew, as though he had been told, that all he had to do was be still and wait.  
  
Presently he had heard the sound of oars and could make out soft voices. Strong, certain hands had reached for him, drawn him up into another boat, and still in a state somewhere closer to reverie than waking, he had been taken to shore.   
  
The small gray boat that had borne him to within sight of the Seaward Watch was left to either sink or return from whence it came. One swift glance had been sufficient to tell those who approached it the story of its origins, somewhere beyond the circle of the world.

~~~~

He had slept for two days, and when he woke it was to a sense of having waded through mist - where he had been, how he had arrived here, were left behind him in the grayness.   
  
Círdan seemed surprised to discover that he knew his name, his former city - he needed no one to tell him the Hidden City no longer stood - even the tale of the Balrog and his fall into darkness.   
  
He had spent his time at the Havens resting, for he tired easily, and learning a little of the new and confusing order of things that had sprung up in his absence.   
  
He had been there for a little over three weeks, growing stronger, starting to feel more at ease with his surroundings, when one afternoon Círdan came and sought him out where he sat in the sun looking out to sea.   
  
The silver haired, lightly bearded Elf took a seat beside him and for a few minutes they sat in companionable silence, Glorfindel shooting glances at the other from the corner of his eye. He had always wondered how it was that this one Elf had a beard, for all the world like a Man, but would never have dared to ask.  
  
“I received a letter this morning,” Círdan said, breaking the silence between them. “It was from Gil-galad himself.”   
  
Glorfindel had already been told that Gil-galad, the son of a Sindarin maid and of Orodreth, brother to Finrod, was now the High King. This meant that the last clear heir to the line of the High Kings of the Noldor on Middle-earth was, in fact, half Sindar. He thought this rather summed up the whole distorted picture he was busy trying to accustom himself to.   
  
Belatedly Glorfindel focused his attention on Círdan, who was waiting for a response from him. “Is there a problem of some kind?” he asked, a sudden sense of unease touching him.  
  
“That would depend on how you choose to look at it,” Círdan replied evenly. “Gil-galad has decided that he wants you at court by the end of the week.”  
  
Glorfindel fought down a rising tide of panic.   
  
“But it’s far too soon,” he exclaimed. “I need more time. There will be so many people - everything is so different - “his voice trailed off as he looked at Círdan in dismay.   
  
Círdan, who had not heard his guest speak with so much eloquence or animation since his arrival, sighed softly to himself. He had rather expected this.   
  
“I think that in this, the King is probably right,” he said, keeping his voice level and reassuring. “Your future home is there, not here. You cannot stay hidden from the world for much longer. The Valar had a purpose in sending you back, and it was hardly so that you could hide yourself away here. You need to start meeting people -“   
  
“I meet people regularly in your guesthouse,” Glorfindel argued, an edge of desperation to his voice. “There are people coming and going there all the time.”  
  
“Yes, quite true,” Círdan agreed mildly. “And they are all in the process of leaving Middle-earth behind forever. The affairs of those who remain here are no longer their main interest. That is why they leave you in peace. In the beginning you needed this solitude, but now the time has come for you to move on.”

~~~~

His arrival in Lindon had turned out to be less taxing and official than might have been expected. The King was absent on some business of his own, and the formal reception that might have greeted Glorfindel had been postponed.  
  
Lost and isolated, left to settle in as best he could, Glorfindel found himself forcibly confronted with the fact that he was, to all intents and purposes, alone in the world. His former friends and family were all either dead or over the sea in Valinor, and no familiar face remained to smooth his adjustment to the confusing new realities of Second Age Lindon.  
  
For most Elves this sense of loss and unfamiliarity would have been sad and unsettling, even when weighed against the joy of such a unique second chance at life. For Glorfindel, however, making new friends, fitting into a new society, was, as Círdan had realized, the stuff of nightmares.   
  
The prospect of receptions, formal dinners, endless numbers of new faces, far from offering a promise of new friends and adventure threatened to completely overwhelm him.   
  
Those clamoring to make the acquaintance of the mighty Noldorin war leader, Balrog slayer, and hero of song and legend would have been startled to learn that the tall, blonde, and stunningly good-looking Elf had one deeply rooted, socially overwhelming disability. He was and always had been intensely and painfully shy, causing him to regard the prospect of crowds of admiring strangers with a deep, crawling horror.  
  
In his youth, amongst family and his few close friends, he had been known and loved as a generous, friendly Elf, kind-hearted to a fault. In social situations, however, although he would have dearly loved to appear outgoing and friendly, his brain seemed to simply shut down. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, his skin started prickling, his throat seemed to close up, and he withdrew into himself.   
  
Because of his silences, and his brief and abrupt-sounding replies to the simplest of approaches, he earned a completely undeserved reputation for being cold and aloof which, when matched with his unsurpassed good looks, was soon written off as arrogance.   
  
Fewer people tried to include him in their activities, he received less opportunity to try and interact, making it more and more difficult for him to do so. Even amongst those Elves whom he had known long enough to feel reasonably at ease with, he tended to be unsure of himself, his deep lack of personal confidence causing him to be hesitant and self-effacing.   
  
Strangely he had no problems with authority figures or the requirements of the environment of a full time warrior. He soon realized there was a right way and a wrong way of doing things, and not too much thought or improvisation was needed to choose between the two. Communication tended to be left at a minimum, and clearly defined actions were the primary requirement.  
  
Lacking the distractions that would have been expected in the life of one both well born and physically attractive, Glorfindel proceeded to carve a name for himself as a fighter of huge commitment and ability.  
  
The pattern was set that might have continued for the rest of his life, leaving him highly respected and admired, although achingly alone, when fate stepped in and opportunity was placed firmly in his path.

~~~~

Ecthelion was dark haired, gray eyed, witty, and gifted with immense charm and popularity, and his friendship was courted assiduously by both ellon and elleth alike. Normally when confronted with such an extroverted personality, Glorfindel would not have managed to put two words together.   
  
As it happened, however, Ecthelion, an unlikely looking but acknowledged master swordsman, had offered to spar with him, to help him master certain finer points of swordplay. This was a type of interaction Glorfindel could handle with comfort.   
  
For his part, having made the right enquiries, Ecthelion decided that the seduction of this beautiful, surprisingly inexperienced golden haired Elf was worth more than a little effort.   
  
He put to good use expertise gained in dealing with a bitterly shy younger sister, handling the situation in such a way as to put Glorfindel at ease. Thanks to his efforts, their relationship developed swiftly from friendship to something with the potential to be far more intimate.  
  
The lack of competition created by Glorfindel’s all but non-existent social life had suggested to Ecthelion that it would take the minimal of time and patience to achieve his goal. However, every time it looked as though things might possibly progress from the stage of hand holding and careful, non-invasive kisses, Glorfindel always backed away.   
  
Unknown to Ecthelion, the golden haired Elf was wrestling with a familiar inner voice, one which had spent most of his life pointing out his many shortcomings to him.   
  
This voice was now asking him disparagingly why he was so set on making a fool of himself with someone as far out of his league as Ecthelion. With chilling logic it reminded him that, when confronted with his complete lack of experience, Ecthelion was likely to lose all interest in him, not just as a prospective lover but also as a friend.  
  
The same voice also reminded him, with brutal clarity, of all the reasons for avoiding an act that would require a fair degree of nudity, expressing a less than glowing opinion of the desirability of his unclad body.   
  
A critical observation before the mirror in his bedroom confirmed all his worst fears. The proportions, he felt, were probably acceptable, but his skin lacked the desired creamy white tones of Elven song and poetry, tending more towards a pale honey.   
  
Predictably, both he and the voice held serious doubts about the size and shape of his penis. He had no idea what normal would entail, but was fairly certain that it would have to be considerably larger.   
  
His nipples, on the other hand, to his deep embarrassment, certainly did seem larger than normal. Whereas those of others appeared to be an inconspicuous shade of beige, his were tinted a delicate dusky rose.  
  
Rather than try and explain any of this to Ecthelion, who was kindness itself but not a very good listener, he decided that it would be easier simply to continue to avoid intimacy, at least for the foreseeable future.   
  
He loved Ecthelion, achingly but silently, with all the misery, uncertainties, and small ecstasies of first love. He longed to submit fully to the caresses of the highly experienced older Elf, dreaming nightly of their completion, but each opportunity that came along saw his ultimate retreat behind stammered excuses and hurried departures.  
  
Elves are a patient people. Time is a commodity of which they have an almost limitless supply. They can usually afford to wait, and this is what Ecthelion settled down to do. He was not totally certain what it was that kept Glorfindel from submitting to him, but he kept trying, presenting an attitude of understanding and acceptance in the face of continued refusal.   
  
He also contrived to discreetly spend a fair amount of time with a very pretty, to say nothing of extremely supple young elleth, who was more than happy to go to quite uninhibited lengths to help keep his frustrations at a manageable level.   
  
This situation would probably not have been able to continue indefinitely, but before the inevitable confrontation could occur, Gondolin ran out of time. With betrayal came fire, Dragons, and the Balrogs of Morgoth. Ecthelion of the Fountain Court died in defense of that which had already been lost and Glorfindel the Golden fell, entangled with flame and horror, willingly giving his life to protect his princess and her seven year old son.

~~~~

Drawn back from his memories by a sensation of being watched, Glorfindel opened his eyes and turned to see a tall, broad shouldered Elf leaning against one of the trees, apparently hesitant to disturb him.   
  
He had a large built for one of their kind, a mane of heavy black hair and very light blue eyes. His face was not beautiful in the classic Elven mold, but was instead better described as arresting, interesting. Unforgettable.  
  
Glorfindel felt the familiar gray blanket settling over his brain at the prospect of starting a conversation with a stranger. He cast about frantically for something, anything to say to the elf that stood there, radiating ease and self-assurance.   
  
Then the stranger smiled, a wonderfully charismatic smile, lighting both his face and the heart of whomever it was directed at, and finding the right words no longer seemed all that important.  
  
“I’m truly sorry I wasn’t here to greet you when you arrived,” the stranger said in a rather deep, mellow voice. “I hope your welcome wasn’t too chaotic. I left instructions that you weren’t to be bothered more than necessary.”   
  
At Glorfindel’s rather uncertain smile he frowned and then made a half amused gesture of annoyance.  
  
“I completely forgot my manners! I’m sorry, I didn’t think to introduce myself.” He reached out his hand, offering the warriors’ grasp. “My name is Ereinion, mostly called Gil-galad. Welcome to Lindon.”


	2. Chapter 2

Gil-galad - known as Gil to the carefully chosen few he considered friends - didn’t allow Glorfindel to be shy. The King was a practical Elf, possessing a quick, keen-sighted intelligence and a very sound instinct for the strengths and weaknesses of those around him.   
  
He realized almost at once that Glorfindel, far from being aloof and unfriendly, was feeling lost and more than a little afraid and overwhelmed. Furthermore, during a brief visit to the Havens, carefully timed to coincide with Glorfindel’s arrival at court, he had had an extremely illuminating conversation with Círdan about Lindon’s latest celebrity.   
  
This had helped him to gain a clearer understanding of the retiring nature of the new arrival, whose insertion into Lindon society would, in Cirdan’s opinion, probably need a fair degree of intervention and management.   
  
Gil-galad fortunately liked managing things. It was an activity at which he excelled. One of his basic tenets was that the less complicated an action, the more likely it was to succeed. In this case, to his mind, the simplest approach was to take Glorfindel under his wing and into his innermost circle, personally organizing his immersion into his new life.   
  
Over the following weeks and under carefully controlled circumstances, he introduced Glorfindel to a varied selection of people. The choices seemed at first glance to be completely random, but in fact were the result of Gil-galad’s personal, and occasionally eccentric, assessment of the person’s sensitivity and conversational skills.  
  
It would naturally have been impossible to exclude his wards, the Mariner’s sons, Elros and Elrond, from this list. Glorfindel’s death had come about as a direct result of his successful effort to save their father and grandmother’s lives. Furthermore, Glorfindel was distantly related to the twins and had expressed an understandable interest in meeting them.   
  
The request was perfectly natural. Gil-galad, however, felt the introductions would benefit from being preceded by a brief discussion between himself and the two young Half-elves.   
  
With this in mind, he sought the pair out in the suite of rooms they currently shared while Elros still remained in Lindon. The elder twin was in the process of completing his education before journeying to Númenor, which would eventually become his permanent home.  
  
The term ‘the twins’ was a trifle misleading, Gil-galad thought, as he surveyed them. They were alike, as often happens with brothers, but far from identical. He felt, personally, that this might have been due to direct intervention by the Valar, their way of making certain that there would only ever be one Elrond Eärendilion.   
  
Elros was never a problem. Had it been him alone, a quick word in passing would have been all that might have been necessary. He sat, straight and respectful, his long dark hair neatly braided, his mist blue tunic and grey leggings impeccably neat, his expression eager but polite.  
  
His sibling sprawled on his stomach on a cushion-strewn divan, chin propped on hands, the identical tunic and leggings clinging to him like a second skin. His unbound hair was a wild, smoky mass, spiderweb-fine, sinfully alluring, and his slanting grey eyes studied Gil-galad with an expression of such intensity as to be more than a little unnerving.  
  
“So, what you are saying is, you want us to keep our distance from the Balrog Slayer, in case we should happen to frighten him. Did I understand that correctly, Sire?” Little glints of mischief sparkled in the storm-coloured eyes.   
  
Gil-galad took a very deep breath and released it slowly. Losing your temper with Elrond was an instant admission of failure. At the least sign of weakness he would pounce, gleeful and heedless as a kitten, inflicting damage with surgical precision.   
  
“Firstly,” he said, very calmly, “I know it is in common use at the moment, but should I hear the term ‘Balrog Slayer’ from either of you again, I’ll give you cause to regret it. It belittles an act of ultimate courage, without which your father would have died at the age of seven, and you two would never have been born.”  
  
Elrond nodded gravely. “That was remiss of me, Sire. I take your point. Secondly?”  
  
Gil-galad eyed him suspiciously, but his face was smooth, displaying nothing more than the correct degree of polite interest. Elros, on the other hand, was positively cringing, usually a reliable pointer to his brother’s intent.   
  
The life of trauma and horror to which they had been exposed since they were toddlers had affected them differently, defining their separateness even more clearly than their appearance did.   
  
Elrond presented an edgy, arrogant self assurance, a scalpel-sharp tongue, and gave no ounce of respect unearned. Elros manifested a calm, helpful appearance, and spent a fair amount of his time appeasing those his brother had managed, with a few well chosen words, to outrage.  
  
“Secondly,” Gil-galad continued, “To put it simply, Glorfindel died in the destruction of Gondolin. He has been returned, not reborn but returned, memories intact, to what is for all intents and purposes a different world. He is naturally disoriented and unsure of himself. I expect you to take this into account and treat him with courtesy and consideration.”  
  
Elrond scratched an elegant though slightly rounded ear thoughtfully. “Yes,” he agreed flatly. “It is a disorienting experience to have your life change in a flash of fire and violence. One would expect understanding and consideration to be the response to this, would one not?”  
  
Gil-galad caught and held his bland stare. The twins’ lives had changed through fire and violence. They had heard those around them dying in fear and pain and seen their mother throw herself into the sea, the accursed jewel around her neck, choosing her death before it could be chosen for her. At the time understanding and consideration had been in short supply.   
  
Remembering this, he swallowed back the angry response sitting on the edge of his tongue. However, he still held Elrond’s gaze, waiting until the Half-elf remembered whom it was he attempted to defy and finally lowered his sea-grey eyes. Gil-galad nodded slightly, whether to Elrond or to himself he was personally uncertain.  
  
“Finally,” he said, “I want you to regard this point as an instruction not a request. You will leash your tongues, you will swallow your wicked wit - both of you, it is not always just Elrond - and you will make Glorfindel feel comfortable and at home, no matter what the temptation.”  
  
He rose and looked from one to the other, and then continued, with the unmistakable undertone of a growl to his voice.   
  
“Should you see fit to disregard my wishes, we will be having another conversation, and it will be considerably less pleasant than this one. Are there any questions?”  
  
Elrond opened his mouth, caught his brother’s eye, and closed it again. Elros stood, gesturing his twin to rise as well out of respect to the King, and achieved what no one else could have as Elrond rose gracefully and stood, head slightly bowed, the picture of decorum and respect. Gil-galad felt an almost irresistible temptation to smack him.  
  
“We understand your concerns,” Elros said quietly. “I assure you, we will both go out of our way to make Lord Glorfindel feel as comfortable and welcomed as possible. Won’t we, Elrond?” He shot his brother a long warning look under his lashes. Elrond offered his infinitely charming smile and nodded agreement.  
  
“Absolutely. Your wish is our desire, Your Grace.”  
  
Gil-galad left while he could still hold his tongue. However, halfway down the hallway, and not for the first time after a run-in with Elrond, he found his lips twitching with barely suppressed laughter.

~~~~

Gil-galad was a practical Elf, and in Glorfindel’s case the list of the purely practical ways in which he could be helped to settle in were numerous indeed.   
  
Since Lord Námo had sent his former guest back out into the world as naked as the day he had been first born, Gil-galad immediately set about supplying his latest dependant with new clothes, personal effects, armor and a very good horse, all out of his own pocket.   
  
They tested the horse’s mettle with a series of hard-ridden excursions to see the surrounding countryside, in company with the twins and a small guard.   
  
Elrond’s behavior was impeccable. He even went so far as to appoint himself Glorfindel’s informal guide, helpfully pointing out places of interest and being quick to furnish answers to any questions that arose, though Gil-galad noticed with amusement that Elros kept a close eye on his brother at all times.   
  
Glorfindel enjoyed these outings. He liked being on horseback, the fresh air and physical activity agreed with him, although Gil-galad had worried that he would be tired by it, and he was fascinated at the pure scale of habitation in this, the largest and most secure of the Elven realms.   
  
He was, in fact, so interested in how this had all come about that the King’s next course of action was to acquire the services of a lore master to join him in explaining recent historical, geographical, and political changes.   
  
It was a natural consequence of all the time they spent in each other's company that they should start comparing their personal preferences, searching for areas of mutual interest.   
  
They were delighted to find they shared the same tastes in books - preferring general entertainment, as opposed to heavier works of lore and philosophy. They liked cats and horses, they were indifferent dancers, and shared an unexpected liking for board games.  
  
They were pleased to discover they had in common a great love for music, despite having no personal ability, though the King did possess a good, strong singing voice. They began attending small concerts and musical evenings together, which they discussed afterwards in great detail.  
  
The court watched the progress of this joined-at-the-hip friendship with a natural cynicism, which was kept carefully concealed as Gil-galad’s temper and his loyalty to his friends were held to be of more or less equal measure.   
  
The younger of the Peredhil twins, Elrond, was heard to pass a few snide comments, though he was careful as to time and place, but he was generally rumored to have a large, juvenile, and completely unreciprocated crush on the King. His comments, therefore, were judged to carry the sickly green hue of jealousy.

~~~~

The day arrived when Glorfindel started to feel restless, expressing a desire to start getting himself back into shape. The King, who took this as a sign that Glorfindel was starting to settle in, immediately pronounced it an excellent idea, and offered to be his first sparring partner in Lindon.  
  
Being Gil-galad, what he actually said was, "I’ve never sparred with some one who’s managed to get close enough to a Balrog to get himself killed before.”  
  
Had this or similar comments come from anyone else Glorfindel would have had no idea how to respond, but he had learned early to be at ease with Gil-galad’s questionable sense of humour, so he accepted the invitation with laughter.   
  
He found himself laughing a surprising amount of the time. Gil-galad, although Glorfindel had no way of knowing it, gave quite a lot of thought to finding ways to get him to laugh, for the pure pleasure of watching the mirth light up that lovely though often over-serious face.  
  
They chose as their venue one of the small outdoor enclosures, and picked the hour when most thoughts were turning to the midday meal, in the hopes of getting a little privacy.   
  
Upon their arrival they spent a little time examining Glorfindel’s new sword, paid for out of the treasury this time, not Gil-galad’s pocket, and, pronouncing it sound, prepared to get on with the business at hand  
  
At any rate Gil-galad, who had never had a problem taking his clothes off, got on with it. Glorfindel stood in an agony of shyness, fiddling with the buttons of his jerkin without going so far as to actually undo any. Gil-galad, already stripped down to almost indecently tight leggings, frowned at him and said,   
  
“Don’t be ridiculous, you can’t fight like that. Get your shirt off; it’s hot as Mordor today. Do you think I’m going to run screaming at the sight of a male nipple?”  
  
Glorfindel was forced to laugh and, turning away, started to undress. He glanced back to see the King standing openly watching him and blushing furiously, was stung into saying,   
  
“If you don’t stop staring at me it stays on. I start feeling stupid and ugly when people stare at me.”  
  
Gil-galad moved forward, laughing.   
  
“Nonsense, come on, get this off and let’s get on with it,” he said, and reached out to help Glorfindel off with his undershirt, pulling it over the golden head in one smooth movement.   
  
Stepping back, still chuckling, with the shirt in his hand, he took in the sight before him and his breath caught in his throat. Glorfindel, bright gold hair braided back neatly, stood facing him, a light blush staining his cheeks and an uncertain smile on his soft lips, clad now only in a pair of form fitting, black leggings.   
  
Gil-galad looked at the perfectly sculpted body with the glowing, satin smooth skin and the delicate, rose tinted nipples, and the laughter died to silence, though the smile stayed in his eyes.  
  
“Not stupid, “he said at last. “And quite literally the furthest thing from ugly that I have ever seen.”  
  
They stood, their eyes locked, the world falling away into stillness, leaving both of them for the moment completely unaware of their surroundings. Then there were voices and Faeleron with two friends arrived, and the moment passed and they set to sparring, loudly encouraged by their impromptu audience.   
  
They were evenly matched in speed and experience, save that the King had never been killed by a Balrog, nor had he ever been a guest of Lord Námo.


	3. Chapter 3

Elrond, the image of helpfulness, had spent hours tracking down a book on the expansion of the coastal communities in response to a query from Glorfindel on the subject. He wandered, uninvited, into Glorfindel’s rooms, to find him trying to decide what to wear to dinner that night.   
  
What he was trying to achieve wasn’t too clear, though it seemed to have something to do with wearing an outfit Gil-galad would think looked attractive. To this end he had taken every possibly suitable item of clothing and simply dumped it on the bed, and was now standing staring in a bemused manner at the pile.   
  
Elrond put the book down and joined him in surveying the mess.  
  
"What were you looking for?" he asked at last, lifting and then with a pained expression dropping a pale brown tunic.  
  
"I was trying to decide what to wear tonight," Glorfindel admitted. He pushed ineffectually at the pile of clothing. "I never seem to get it right somehow.”  
  
Elrond was still looking at the brown tunic. "You won't if this is the sort of thing you have to choose from," he remarked. "Where did you get this?"  
  
"When I arrived, Círdan organized clothing for me. That was one of the tunics he provided."  
  
"Círdan...!"  
  
"I was sent back with nothing, including clothing. The intention wasn’t to make a fashion statement, it was simply to cover me," Glorfindel offered.  
  
He had gotten over his initial uncertainty with Elrond. Almost everyone was wary of the young Half-elf's tongue, though Glorfindel knew a facade when he saw it. He was quite curious as to what lay behind this one.   
  
He also had an idea that Elrond had been warned by Gil-galad, as he was unfailingly polite and helpful, even when it was quite obvious that he was gritting his teeth from the effort.  
  
Glorfindel had started taking Gil-galad’s intervention in a whole range of areas for granted, from recommendations of books to read all the way through to the once-dreaded experience of social mingling.  
  
The King made a point of staying within earshot until he was sure Glorfindel had started to relax and take part in the conversation, which was something the blonde Elf found to be immensely liberating.   
  
He knew that, should there be one of those awkward pauses in the conversation, should a question be asked that he felt inadequate to answer, it would be dealt with, smoothly and effectively, by someone who was totally at ease in any situation and appeared never to be at a loss for words.   
  
Almost without realizing it, he started to take note of how Gil-galad did this, and slowly began to put these lessons into practice in a small way himself. This nurturing of a feeling of security, of being in a safe environment socially, was something he could not remember ever having experienced before.  
  
The habits of a lifetime are not easily shed, but Glorfindel’s shyness was not inborn but was a thing learnt in childhood. As with all habits, with patient support and guidance, it could, to a fair degree, be unlearnt  
  
Glorfindel was born the only son of the head of a wealthy and noble house, with connections to royalty. He was a beautiful, well-behaved child, although diffident and reserved towards strangers.   
  
His father observed his lack of confidence with deeply felt, ineptly expressed concern. This took the form of regular lectures on the need to be more outgoing, more assertive, to avoid gauche behavior that would open him to mockery and ridicule.  
  
His mother, in an attempt to aid her son, had supported him behind his father’s back with soft words of sympathy and support, which had the effect of reaffirming his fears.   
  
A phase that could easily have been overcome with a little understanding and guidance was slowly reinforced into a deep-seated fear of phobic proportions.  
  
Elrond was poking cautiously through the heap of clothing, a look of disbelief on his face as he examined first one item and then another.  
  
“You said dinner,” he queried eventually. “I wasn’t aware there was anything special planned for tonight?”  
  
“No, not special, no -“Glorfindel found himself stammering, and automatically coloured. He took a deep breath and tried again. “It’s nothing special, just the King, Dalbros, and Erestor. It’s just that I seem to wear the same clothes all the time and wanted a change, but I’m not much good at this sort of thing.”   
  
As he said this, he spared a glance for Elrond, stylish in soft rose and maroon. The dark hair had escaped its ties, as usual, and he had pushed his sleeves up almost to the elbows, and yet he still managed to look the picture of taste and style. The model of Elven elegance was frowning slightly.  
  
“Dalbros the librarian I know of course, but Erestor? I don’t think…”  
  
“The new assistant military advisor. Black hair, amber eyes, very intelligent, interesting to talk to.”  
  
Elrond bit back the clever little response that danced on his tongue, knowing it would be misconstrued, and chose instead to nod and murmur, “Ah, of course. I remember him now. Maedhros used to call him the Raven – for his hair. Very original.”  
  
He had started off minding his manners around the new arrival at Elros’ insistence but soon, to his surprise, found himself doing so as a matter of choice. In fact, he found himself actively seeking Glorfindel out, sensing the blonde’s loneliness.  
  
The contrast between heroic stature and extreme good looks on the one hand and shy, uncertain sweetness on the other were touching. They spoke to the insecurity and feelings of exclusion within Elrond himself, which he went to extreme measures to conceal, both from others and increasingly from himself.   
  
He did, however, find himself wondering with rather cynical amusement what Glorfindel’s response was going to be when Gil-galad finally made his move. The King had gone from feeling responsible for the returned warrior’s comfort and welfare to a condition where every third phrase out of his mouth seemed to be prefaced with “Glorfindel says….” or “Glorfindel wants…”   
  
Elrond, who had been trying half-heartedly to catch the eye of the tall, dark haired monarch himself, wasn’t sure whether to be upset or amused, finally settling, instead, to watch and learn. And maybe gossip a little while he was about it, much to Elros’ horror.  
  
Elrond started sorting through the clothing with a bit more purpose, accepting a few items, rejecting the majority until there were three piles on the bed. He moved back to stand with Glorfindel who had been watching him in confusion.  
  
“The first pile,” he said, pointing to a small mound consisting of a scant few items, “are the clothes you will choose your outfit for tonight from. These,” he gestured to the second, slightly larger collection, “are acceptable. Barely.”  
  
He leaned over and lifted the final pile of clothing and tipped it eloquently onto the floor beside the bed. He stood back and fixed Glorfindel with a firm stare. “These go!”  
  
“I can’t just throw them away.” Glorfindel exclaimed, horrified. “That would be wrong, and ungrateful and wasteful and….”  
  
“And then we will replace them with something more suitable,” Elrond continued, as though he had said nothing. “Something more in line with your coloring and build.”  
  
Glorfindel’s face lit for a moment at the thought of stylish, elegant Elrond helping him choose clothing, and then reality intervened and he shook his head.   
  
“I can’t do that,” he said regretfully. Elrond frowned at him in impatience.  
  
“I promise you, neither Círdan nor Ereinion would even notice. Are these the clothing choices of an Elf who notices fashion? Be sensible. There’s no need to throw them away, there are enough refugees here who would be grateful for them. I can arrange to…”  
  
“I can’t ask the King to give me money to buy more clothing just because what I was originally given was not fashionable enough. And I have no resources myself,” Glorfindel interrupted him, his face deeply flushed with embarrassment.  
  
Elrond opened then closed his mouth. Memories flashed through his mind of himself and Elros, dependent for a large part of their lives on the kindness of others, teaching each other to sew in an attempt to maintain the few clothes they had.   
  
Things were very different now. They each received an allowance from the Treasury. Much of that which had been taken the night their mother died and their world changed had been returned to them. The days of want were now long past, but he knew very well how it was to lack the means to replace the smallest item of clothing.  
  
He looked at the miserably uncomfortable Elf before him. Glorfindel had never known a day of want before now, had no experience to fall back on, and was both too shy and too proud to ask for help. Something small shifted inside Elrond, something that was the beginnings of responsibility and compassion, the core of the Elf Lord he would one day become.  
  
“You don’t have to ask Ereinion,” he said in what he hoped for Glorfindel’s sake was a suitably casual tone. He found he had no urge to embarrass him further. “I’ll see to it. I think I’ll rather enjoy this actually. Like having a life-size doll to play with.”  
  
“I can’t possibly allow you to spend that amount of money on me,” Glorfindel began, but Elrond shook his head firmly before flashing him a rare, genuinely sweet smile.  
  
“Look on it as the beginnings of restitution,” he suggested quite gently. “After all, my brother and I do rather owe you for the Balrog.”

~~~~

After Elrond left, Glorfindel picked up the clothing from the floor and folded it carefully before putting it away, after a little thought, into the chest where the extra blankets and such were kept. The ‘acceptable’ clothing he put away in their usual place and then he turned his attention to the available choices for the evening.  
  
There was a deep blue robe that he felt too conspicuous in, though it would have appealed to Elrond who had a fondness for peacock colours, a pair of gray leggings, and a choice of tunics, one being of a red that was closer to scarlet, and the other a soft forest green.  
  
After some thought, feeling defeated through lack of experience, he wore red because he had been told it suited him. He dressed his hair casually, plaiting a few side braids and leaving the rest loose. It hung in a heavy ripple of gold over his shoulders and down his back to a spot somewhat below his waist.  
  
Finally, trying not to think overmuch as to why he was going to so much trouble for what was merely a simple dinner with friends, he made his way to Gil-galad’s private rooms.

~~~~

He arrived on time, but upon entering discovered he was alone in the little sitting room that the King used when entertaining informally.  
  
This was a room Glorfindel liked and in which he felt at ease. There were comfortable chairs, a divan covered with cushions, small tables holding an assortment of Gil-galad’s personal treasures.   
  
One table, set slightly apart and under the window and flanked by two chairs, held a crystal chess set with a half-finished game - the twins were dedicated, aggressive players.   
  
There was a thick, warm rug on the floor in front of the fireplace. It was the perfect spot to sit and have a late night cup of wine and one of those long, involved conversations that Gil-galad so loved, which took the world apart and rebuilt it again.   
  
The room was decorated throughout in an assortment of warm, vibrant colors, which should have fought one another to a standstill but somehow blended into a harmonious whole.  
  
The only new addition to be seen was a small table over in the corner, attractively prepared, and decorated with a small floral centerpiece and a pair of good candles. Places were set for two diners.  
  
The inner door clicked shut as Gil-galad came through to join him. He was dressed simply in dark blue leggings and tunic, his hair held back with intricate mithril clasps. An alert observer might have noticed a brief hesitation before he came forward with his usual heart-stopping smile.  
  
“Thought I heard some one,” he said, going to the fire and adding a totally unnecessary log.  
  
“I seem to be the first,” Glorfindel volunteered from his place by the chess set, where he was busy scrutinizing the game.  
  
“Oh, no, no, it’s just us tonight,” Gil-galad told him, still very busy with the fire. “Erestor pleaded pressure of work and Dalbros had forgotten a family commitment.”  
  
Before he would have to answer the query in Glorfindel’s eyes, which would probably have required huge economy with the truth, there was a tap at the door. A small delegation from the kitchen entered, bearing an assortment of foods in covered dishes, which they proceeded to lay out on the server set next to the table.  
  
“I thought, as it was just the two of us, that it would be pleasant to have something we could see to ourselves,” Gil-galad ventured. “Keep it casual, no need for servants.”   
  
Glorfindel, as he had hoped, nodded eagerly. The blonde was never relaxed in the more formal environment created by servants, and would be more than happy for it to be just the two of them.


	4. Chapter 4

The meal was delightful. There was a starter of sweet melon and ham, followed by a fish platter consisting of a variety of seafood on a bed of wild rice, a small salad, and a delicately flavored pink sauce. This was followed by a crisp and rather filling apple dessert topped with custard, a favorite of the King’s.   
  
To accompany all this there were several bottles of a light though potent sparkling wine brought from the far south at considerable expense.  
  
The conversation was casual and confined to generalities: the King’s meeting with a trade delegation from the southeast, Glorfindel’s opinion concerning Elros’ new puppy, the likelihood of Dalbros’ wife being pregnant – again.   
  
Glorfindel, to his continued amazement, had never experienced any difficulty in talking to Gil-galad. Tonight, however, the King seemed distracted, and after a while Glorfindel turned his attention instead to enjoying the meal.  
  
After they had eaten and carefully stacked the dirty dishes on the small serving table, Gil-galad proceeded to wander around the room, wine cup in hand, snuffing out candles as he went, eventually leaving the room lit by one small lamp and the firelight. Settling himself down on the rug, he said over his shoulder,   
  
"Bring that last bottle over here with you. Now that it's open, we might as well finish it."  
  
Glorfindel picked it up with a smile. "Can't understand how you could open it by accident," he said in amusement. "You leave us no choice now; we’ll just have to drink it. I hadn’t planned on another half bottle tonight."  
  
Gil-galad pulled a slight face and shrugged.   
  
"Can't imagine how I happened to do that, uncorking it when we hadn’t even finished the other one," he said evenly. “Still, it would be a pity to waste it. It’s very good. You get a lovely warm feeling from all those little bubbles, have you noticed?"  
  
Glorfindel, who was usually a two- to three-cup Elf, and was currently at the top of that self-imposed limit, had noticed. Very warm. In fact, his skin seemed to be starting to tingle.  
  
He brought the bottle over, handed it to Gil-galad and settled down opposite him on the rug before the fire, leaning his head back against one of the chairs, and relaxed.

~~~~

An hour after dinner found Gil-galad and Glorfindel stretched out on the floor, the chessboard between them, engaging in a not very serious and rather haphazard game of something approaching chess, played to a raucously expanding set of rules.  
  
Gil-galad, lying propped up on an elbow, had just taken another of Glorfindel's pieces by an act of blatant dishonesty. He was busy palming it while attempting to justify his actions, his blue eyes sparkling and alive with mischief.   
  
Glorfindel, laughing, and made more than a little uninhibited by the wine, reached out and grabbed at the King’s wrist in an attempt to wrest the little crystal figurine from his grasp.  
  
"You had no justification for doing that, Sire..." he began, tugging ineffectually at the large, strong hand into which the rook had vanished.  
  
“’Gil’!” insisted his opponent laughingly, keeping a tight hold on the piece. “I have told you more times than I can remember, when we are alone I want you to call me Gil. It’s hardly a difficult name. Come on, let me hear you say it first and then we shall see.”  
  
Glorfindel raised his eyes from the strong wrist he was gripping and gave Gil-galad a mock scowl. “Whatever name I call you makes no difference, GIL, you still had absolutely no right to do that,” he said, before bursting into laughter.   
  
Gil-galad looked up at him. Glorfindel’s golden hair gleamed in the firelight. His beautiful face, alight with laughter, was slightly flushed, both from wine and from the fire's warmth, and his soft lips were moist, irresistible.   
  
Dropping the gaming piece and moving upright with surprising grace, he drew Glorfindel into his arms. All laughter gone, his face utterly serious, Gil-galad kissed him, very softly and very carefully on the lips.  
  
For the space of some seven heartbeats they were both motionless, then they drew back to look at one another. Glorfindel's eyes were wide, wondering. He moved his hand up, touching his fingers almost unconsciously to his lips, never taking his eyes off the King.   
  
Gil-galad took Glorfindel’s face gently between his hands, tilting it up to his while lightly stroking his thumbs back and forth across the high cheekbones and watching him intently.   
  
He leaned in slowly, keeping eye contact until finally their lips met. His tongue snaked out and licked slowly, almost thoughtfully, across Glorfindel's mouth, tracing first his top lip then, lingeringly, the bottom one. Drawing back slightly he murmured,   
  
"Part your lips, let me taste your mouth. Please!"

~~~~

Early evening had found Elrond out for a walk in the palace gardens, Elros’ puppy, Laslech, leashed and firmly in tow. The dog had been a gift from a delegation of Men who had come to Lindon in the hope of speaking with the future King of Númenor. Elros had accepted her with thanks. It would have been impolite to say he much preferred cats.   
  
Elrond had taken it upon himself to make sure the animal was properly fed and exercised, making it clear that he did so in the interests of a clean and controlled living environment. He missed no opportunity to remind Elros, and anyone else who would listen, of the sacrifice he was making, both in time and patience.  
  
In fact, Elrond adored the puppy, but he kept up the façade as he could hardly admit to this. His entire image revolved around his complete lack of sentiment or softness, and the term ‘dog lover’ hardly sat well with that. She was, however, his confidante, someone he could hold onto in his many moments of insecurity.  
  
They were passing the fountain with the ugly dolphin motif when he spotted a vaguely familiar figure. He paused to look, attracted by the Elf’s appearance, and then after a moment’s thought recalled a name for the face – and an interesting snippet of information.  
  
Laslech had found an intriguing place to sniff around and nose at and seemed oblivious to the fact that her companion wanted to move on.  
  
“Come along, Laslech,” he said, giving the leash a quick tug. “Let’s go and have some fun.”  
  
His target was standing looking down into the fish pond, and he glanced round, the gleaming fall of black hair swinging smoothly with the movement, to see who approached. He offered Elrond an enquiring smile.  
  
The Elf was a little under medium height and had the grace and balance of a dancer. His hair fell straight and gleaming like black satin to mid buttock, his exotically slanted eyes were deep amber, and he had skin the colour and texture of thick cream.  
  
“Erestor, isn’t it?” Elrond inquired on reaching him. “I thought I recognized you. I remember you as an occasional visitor to our camp back when my brother and I were with Maedhros.”  
  
Any reminder of a connection to the Sons of Fëanor was usually regarded as hugely embarrassing. Elrond both enjoyed and despised the sidestepping or even outright denials this sort of statement would normally induce, so he was quite impressed when the black-haired Elf nodded at once without so much as blinking.   
  
“Yes,” Erestor answered. “We met on a few occasions when you and your brother were much younger.” He had a low, even voice, cool as water, mellow as honey.  
  
Laslech spotted the fish and began barking frantically, straining at the leash in her efforts to get to the water. Elrond picked her up, shushed her firmly, and tucked her under an arm, refusing to be made uncomfortable by her behavior.  
  
“My cousin has appointed you assistant military advisor, I believe,” he said, displaying the sort of poise that denied the existence of an over-excited young dog under his arm.   
  
Erestor nodded. “Yes, I was very fortunate. I was hoping for some kind of a clerical opening, and this was far more than I had expected.”  
  
“Clerical?” Elrond asked. “I thought I recalled intelligence as your specialty?”  
  
Erestor quirked a brow at the less than complimentary tone. “Well, that perhaps overstates it, but I do have some experience in gathering information,” he conceded, “However, His Majesty felt my talents could be used in a more conventional manner. We shall see if it works out or not.”  
  
Elrond frowned to himself, estimating the time. “Being exceptionally late for dinner won’t endear you to him,” he suggested. Erestor looked at him enquiringly, and then his face cleared.  
  
“Oh, the dinner invitation for this evening. No, it was cancelled, otherwise you’re quite right, I would be rather late. “  
  
“Cancelled?” Elrond asked, glancing back over his shoulder to see what had attracted Laslech’s attention this time, and spotting the unmistakable figure of Lord Círdan.   
  
“His Majesty had to attend an urgent meeting. He had no idea when it would finish, so he thought it better to reschedule.”  
  
Elrond found he rather liked the black-haired Elf, enjoying the fact that he had not attempted to hide the more inconvenient details of his past. An incorrigible gossip, he opened his mouth to share the assumed focus of the ‘meeting’, and then a picture flashed into his mind.   
  
He saw Glorfindel and a bed full of clothing, saw the blonde trying to decide what to wear out of this limited selection, blushing painfully as he admitted to being penniless and dependant.   
  
Elrond’s definition of ‘family’ tended to be vague, but he was prepared to protect anyone who fell under that heading with his life. Currently this select group consisted of Elros and to a lesser extent, Laslech and Gil-galad. Somehow, in the space of an afternoon, it now also encompassed the shy, quietly-spoken blonde, whom he owed for the Balrog. He did what up until then he had only ever done for Elros. He lied.  
  
“Yes,” he said easily. “I suppose he would have had to reschedule. He was complaining to me earlier about his life not being his own.”  
  
He put Laslech down again. “You’ll have to excuse me,” he added with one of his more charming smiles. “I need to leave before Lord Círdan spots me. Long story.”  
  
Erestor inclined his head slightly, then bent down and patted the pup. “Of course,” he said, shooting Elrond a considering look from amber eyes. “I hope we meet again soon.”  
  
Elrond’s brows shot up and he laughed. “This place is like a small village. You’ll be lucky to have a day go by without running into me once you’re settled.”  
  
Saying this, he turned and headed off quickly in the direction from which he had come, Laslech trotting to keep up. Because he really did prefer not to run into Círdan if he could help it – the ancient Elf always had some question about his behavior, some comment about his appearance - he went in through the nearest door and took a roundabout route back to the private wing. On the way to his own chambers, he passed the hallway that led to Gil-galad’s rooms and flashed it a curious though amused look.  
  
“Wonder how that’s working, girl?” he asked the dog. “We’ll have to see if we can get Glorfindel to kiss and tell, won’t we?”

~~~~

Glorfindel could hear the blood humming in his ears. There was a heightened tension spreading throughout his body, mostly concentrated in his groin. There the sensation of throbbing heat was slowly making itself the focal point of his world.   
  
And Gil - no longer Gil-galad the King, just Gil - was kissing him as he had never even dreamed of being kissed, slowly exploring his mouth, tasting, savoring. The strong arms that held him had drawn him back down onto the rug, the chess set having been firmly pushed to one side.   
  
Gil was leaning over him, stroking his hair and face as he kissed him, while trailing light, caressing fingers down his neck, moving them in tiny circles. The gentle touch moved steadily lower, finally coming to rest on the top clasp of his tunic. Panting slightly, Gil eventually released Glorfindel’s mouth and drew back so that they could make eye contact.  
  
"I need to undress you,” he said simply. “I need to touch you. Please..." His gaze was intense, the blue eyes dark and cloudy.  
  
Glorfindel lay staring up at him, remembering all those times with Ecthelion, when this same request had been made. Somehow that all seemed very far away, while Gil was close and warm. This time he really didn’t want to stop.  
  
In a shaky voice, searching Gil’s eyes, he asked,   
  
"Why me? You could have almost anyone you wanted, someone beautiful, special...why would you want me?"   
  
Gil quirked an eyebrow while running a less than steady finger along the line of Glorfindel’s jaw. Smiling, he shook his head and said in amusement,   
  
"You simply have no idea, do you? I have no interest in anyone else. Come, just your tunic, sweetheart. I won’t ask you to do anything that makes you uncomfortable, I promise, just please, please let me touch you..."   
  
As he spoke, he was stroking Glorfindel’s chest and shoulders, enforcing gentleness on hands that wanted to squeeze and grasp. Glorfindel swallowed hard and closed his eyes, nodding.  
  
Gil decided not to give him too much time to think about it. The tunic was removed swiftly and efficiently, followed by the undershirt, Gil’s fingers proving to be remarkably agile despite their size. Before he knew it, Glorfindel lay on the rug with air and firelight tracing patterns on his naked skin and sun-bright hair. Gil removed his own tunic, balling it up and tossing it across the room before taking a moment to loosen his hair. He placed the mithril hair clasps beside the chessboard and shook out his long black hair.   
  
Glorfindel noticed the unexpected red lights in the thigh-length mane and focused on this, trying to shut out the suddenly silent room. Predictably, all the usual feelings of uncertainty and inadequacy were rushing in to claim him, to take this night away from him as they had all the others.   
  
Gil, however, proved himself to be even quicker than fear and self-doubt. Kneeling, he proceeded to run firm but gentle hands over Glorfindel, his face serious, concentrated. Gil’s fingers explored the curves and hollows of the body lying still but uncertain under his touch, tracing ribs, circling down lightly over the firm stomach, following the line of the waist using a soft feathery touch that raised gooseflesh.  
  
Leaning closer, he ran his hands smoothly back up, and began to circle Glorfindel’s highly sensitive nipples with his fingertips before rubbing his thumbs over them, gently but firmly, grazing very lightly with his short nails. Almost as a reflex Glorfindel gasped, his eyes closing abruptly, and Gil bent his head to take one hardening temptation between his lips. He felt the moment of tension in the body beneath his and then he drew the nub and surrounding flesh into his mouth, caressing it with his tongue.   
  
Glorfindel cried out sharply and reached for Gil, his arms going round him. One hand found the back of his head, fingers sinking into the thick, dark hair, pressing him closer as the blonde Elf writhed and moaned softly. Gil licked and suckled each nipple in turn, whispering broken words of praise and desire, then moved slowly down Glorfindel’s body, the sure touch of his hands and mouth making the blonde Elf murmur incoherently and wrap his hands tighter in Gil’s hair.   
  
He pushed the band of Glorfindel’s leggings down carefully, exploring his navel thoroughly with his tongue, causing his inexperienced partner to shiver and whimper softly. A series of lingering kisses, with a pause to lavish more attention on the intensely responsive nipples, was followed by Gil nipping a trail of fire up Glorfindel’s neck and reclaiming his mouth.  
  
This kiss, unlike the others, was almost rough, his need and insistence showing. It left Glorfindel almost inarticulate with desire as he attempted to deal with the rush of new sensations that were overwhelming his body. When the kiss ended, Gil drew back from him and moved to sit up. Glorfindel groaned aloud and tried to hold on to him, but Gil disengaged himself easily. He took Glorfindel’s hands in his own and said softly,   
  
“I need you to look at me, sweetheart. Are you sure you want this to go further? You need to be certain.”  
  
The world started crowding back in on Glorfindel, and in a dazed sort of fashion he began to remember why he should be saying no. Struggling to give some order to his thoughts, he tried to explain – no easy task while lying half-naked on the rug next to the fire with Gil’s hands holding his, stroking his fingers firmly.  
  
"I know I’m going to sound stupid, but I have never - well - never done this before. I know I don’t have the experience to satisfy you. I have no idea what you need from me - I am just afraid I will disappoint you,” he said, finishing in a rush of words and turning his head away, his face burning.  
  
"Never before, sweetheart? Truly?" Gil asked in a quiet, serious voice. At Glorfindel’s uncertain nod, he smiled and raised one of the hands he was caressing to his lips.  
  
"None of us are born experienced," he said gently. “I can think of nothing more wonderful than to be your first lover. Will you have me?”  
  
Glorfindel lay looking up at him searchingly, and Gil waited quietly, perfectly still save for the movement of his fingers. Finally, slowly, the blonde Elf nodded. Gil leaned down, smiling, to take him into his arms, and for long minutes simply held him close, rubbing his cheek against the fair hair.   
  
After a while he began to stroke a hand slowly up and down Glorfindel’s back, eventually reaching lower, to unfasten the blonde’s leggings. He removed them and the loincloth, carefully. Only then did he take off the last of his own clothes.   
  
Turning back from throwing his garments off into the dimness, he heard Glorfindel, a trace of color even now staining his cheeks, whisper softly, “You’re - beautiful!” He was looking up, eyes wide, at the strong, well-proportioned body kneeling above him.   
  
“Do you think I am?” Gil asked him, smiling. At Glorfindel’s nod he leaned over and, lips close to his ear, said, “Would you like to explore what you see? It would give me so much pleasure if you wanted to touch me.”  
  
He lay down, rolled onto his back, and folded his arms behind his head. Giving Glorfindel an encouraging grin, he assumed an air of waiting.  
  
Glorfindel started slowly, uncertainly, caressing the firmly muscled stomach and chest, finally daring to lick the small, dark nipples, causing Gil to groan with need. He progressed to sucking the hardened points and stroking them with his tongue, shy uncertainty melting away in the face of Gil’s obvious pleasure.   
  
Presently he kissed his way lingeringly down to Gil’s waist, from where he was encouraged to venture lower. He found himself tentatively touching Gil’s erect penis, an action full of new uncertainties but, remembering every conversation on the subject that he had ever overheard, he applied his lips and the tip of his tongue to the swollen head and experimentally sucked.   
  
Gil allowed himself a few selfish, mind-numbing minutes of pure pleasure, and then tugged at Glorfindel’s hair - hard - to make him stop.   
  
“You have no idea what you are doing to me, do you?” Gil managed to get out on a half laugh. “You are driving me insane... come here and find out what it feels like!”  
  
Gil pulled him up into a quick, close embrace, kissing him hard. Glorfindel barely had a chance to return the kiss before he found himself lying flat on his back again.   
  
Gil ran hands and tongue down his body in a straight, unerring line and then, for Glorfindel, time all but stood still. The room retreated, leaving him aware of nothing but the rug under his naked back, the dark hair falling across his stomach and hips, and Gil’s mouth doing impossible things. For a few minutes there was nothing but the mouth, his cock, darkness, and sparks behind his closed eyelids. He almost forgot to breathe.   
  
Gil released him despite his almost frantic protests and propped himself up on his elbows, shaking his hair out of his face. He looked at Glorfindel, lying on his back, his arms flung out, fingers gripping the rug, his hair a pool of gold. The fire lit his body, showing the taut, ruby nipples and the darkening kiss marks.   
  
”Do we finish this?” Gil asked him softly. Glorfindel was gasping for breath, beyond words. All he could manage was a nod and an incoherent murmur.  
  
"I'm going to assume that meant 'yes' then," Gil said with a breathless laugh  
and sat up.  
  
Glorfindel had a brief impression of movement, of Gil stretching out and scratching about amongst the wood beside the fire, then he was once more being held and kissed and then nothing mattered except the strong body moving urgently against his, and need that was slowly becoming his whole existance.


	5. Chapter 5

The Palace at Lindon was in reality a series of buildings serving a variety of purposes: part administrative center, part military headquarters, and part royal dwelling place. It contained all the offices of government, an armory, comprehensive kitchen facilities, a healing center, and of course, extensive stables.   
  
It also offered accommodation, at a nominal rental, for those employees who wished to take advantage of this convenience. Those who did so received two basic meals a day, laundry services, and access to the communal bathing facilities.   
  
The sprawling complex was the first of its kind, bearing no resemblance to the walled, defensible strongholds of former Noldorin Kings. It was a new approach, a response to the dawning of a new Age.   
  
Outside the palace, the town around it was growing and sprawling outwards. Settlements had sprung up in all directions, catering to many different groups and cultures. found it reassuring to live under the protection of the first High King ever to hold out the promise of some form of peace and security.

~~~~

Inside the Palace, in the living quarters set aside for mid-level administrative personnel, Erestor stood in the middle of his small, plain room and considered his surroundings.  
  
He had unpacked his sparse belongings within an hour of arriving, put them neatly away and thought no more of it, but he was now struck by how bare and unwelcoming the room appeared. There was no warmth, none of the little extras that suggested home. It appeared untouched, unoccupied.   
  
Until now, this had been of no concern to him. The room had simply been a convenient place to read and rest. Now he looked at it through other eyes and found it to be wanting in the extreme. No one would bring a guest here for any reason other than brief, meaningless physical satisfaction.   
  
Having assessed the room as a problem to be solved, he took a stick of graphite and one of the parchment discards he used for notes and proceeded to make a list of items that would address the solution. It was a methodical and comprehensive list, reflecting the sharp, observant mind that had led to his being employed in a potentially sensitive position despite his less than pristine past.  
  
The idea of perhaps being able to invite someone back to his room for a cup of wine and a little conversation, had not fully occurred to him until earlier that evening, and then only vaguely. The thought that the guest might be the Half-elven Princeling he had encountered in the garden was something he firmly dismissed as unlikely in the extreme at this point in his career.   
  
However, stranger things had happened in his life. There was also nothing wrong with being prepared. Anyway, he reasoned, a little colour and texture would be pleasant for a change.  
  
Decisions made, list written, he fastened his hair back and then, putting out the lamp – oil was far from inexpensive in this fast-growing capital, he had discovered – he left the room. Once outside, he resumed his search for the most conducive spot to perform the exercise routine with which he had, for years, been in the habit of beginning and ending his day.

~~~~

Meanwhile, lying on the rug in front of the fire, decision made, Gil found that he was in no hurry to proceed. Instead, he was taking his time and simply enjoying the closeness, the escalating heat between them, the shared caresses.  
  
Glorfindel, to his delight, was no longer a tentative partner. Lips explored, sampled, hands tangled in hair, and all the while their bodies twisted and writhed almost as one.   
  
Finally, when the moment felt right, Gil guided the blonde Elf onto his side, drawing one of Glorfindel's legs half over his hip, and moved a hand smoothly down Glorfindel's body, caressing his thigh, his firm behind, before using one finger to circle his lover's most intimate opening, lightly at first, then harder, deeper.  
  
Glorfindel was vaguely aware of slickness - oil? Where would Gil have found oil? he wondered vaguely. Then the finger thrust inside, and even before his own cry, he heard Gil give a low moan of desire. The finger penetrated him, pushing against firm resistance. There was no real pain, just a feeling of strangeness, which was not exactly unwelcome, just – different.   
  
After a few minutes, Gil carefully added more oil. Suddenly, despite a moan of protest from Glorfindel, one probing finger became two. The kissing and caressing continued, as Gil’s mouth roved from lips to nipples to throat, licking and sucking, balancing possible discomfort with proven pleasure.   
  
The slick fingers meanwhile stretched, loosened, seeking and finally finding their sensitive target. Sudden pressure caused Glorfindel to swear graphically while instinctively jerking sharply back against the source of the unbelievable jolt of pleasure.   
  
Gil drew him into a fierce, one-armed embrace, reclaiming his mouth in a passionate kiss, while he proceeded to thrust his fingers in and out of the blonde, striking the same spot each time and causing him to moan and writhe and attempt to cry out against the covering mouth.  
  
Finally, ignoring some very vocal protests, he released Glorfindel and reached again for the little bottle of oil he had secreted earlier, optimistically, by the fire. Kneeling, he poured a generous amount into his hand and started smoothing it over his aching shaft, shuddering at his own touch.   
  
After a moment, he became aware that Glorfindel was watching him with a less than encouraging expression in his eyes.  
  
Gil paused.   
  
“Is everything all right?” he asked in sudden trepidation.  
  
“I can’t!” Glorfindel said flatly.   
  
A little voice in the back of Gil-galad’s head screamed, “You idiot! Too fast, you moved too fast!” but he managed to keep his expression reassuring and his voice calm though a bit breathless as he asked,   
  
“What’s wrong? What did I do?”  
  
“No, no you didn’t do anything wrong, you’re wonderful, being with you feels like all I ever wanted. I just feel so…so…” he broke off, dropping his embarrassed gaze and blushing furiously. Gil knelt looking at him quizzically, an oil-covered hand resting, all but forgotten, on his penis.  
  
“Well, what then, sweetheart?” he asked.  
  
Glorfindel refused to look at him. “I‘m just still not completely sure how it all works,” he muttered, shaking his hair over his face like a shield.  
  
In spite of frantic efforts to stop himself, Gil burst out laughing. Gathering Glorfindel into his arms, he wrapped himself around the desperately embarrassed Elf, resting a cheek against the golden hair. Gil’s genuine amusement finally infected Glorfindel, forcing him to see the humor in the situation and join in the laughter.  
  
When they at last settled down, save for the occasional giggle, Gil brushed shimmering fair hair back from Glorfindel’s face and said, still grinning,   
  
“My dear, I assure you that I certainly know how it all works and if I give you my word to be slow and careful, if I promise to be gentle, do you think we could at least try?” He cupped the flushed but lovely face with a strong hand. “If you would rather wait, I’ll understand, of course, but…”  
  
Glorfindel gave a final chuckle and then put an arm round Gil’s neck, looking up into his eyes.  
  
“Slow and careful and gentle sounds perfect," he said. “I think I’ve waited long enough. It’s time I found out.”  
  
They lay kissing quietly for a few minutes, recreating the earlier mood, until Gil, with a final caress, released the blonde and retrieving the oil, told him to turn onto his side. When he looked back, Glorfindel was lying as instructed, stretched out like a golden cat and facing the fire.   
  
Settling down behind him, Gil took his time, kissing Glorfindel’s neck and shoulders and stroking his hair, before placing his hand behind an upper thigh and pushing gently, murmuring,   
  
“Draw your knee up to your chest – it will make this easier for us both.” He then slipped his left arm under Glorfindel’s shoulder, drawing him close, and whispered, “Give me your hand.”

Taking the long fingered hand, which was so much more like a musician's than a warrior's, within his own, Gil linked their fingers. Resting his free hand on Glorfindel's buttock and spreading him open, Gil pushed forward firmly and entered his lover. He paused a moment while placing a steadying hand on Glorfindel's hip, and then with his usual approach to difficult actions of 'getting it over with', arched abruptly forward, burying himself within his partner to the hilt.  
  
Glorfindel’s head jerked back and his breath hissed sharply with a sound of pain, but on the third attempt, Gil found his pleasure spot and was rewarded with Glorfindel crying out and thrusting back against him. Gil nodded to himself, satisfied, and moved his right hand down to grasp his lover’s suddenly steel hard arousal.   
  
“Careful enough?” he asked, resting his cheek against Glorfindel’s and laughing huskily at the response, which was an almost incoherent growl. Tightening his arm around his partner and squeezing the hand clasped in his, Gil began to thrust into him, slowly at first and then faster and deeper, finally burying his face in the golden hair, all caution forgotten, and giving himself over to ecstasy.  
  
Lying beneath him, Glorfindel moved urgently in time with Gil, his mind empty of all else save the firm hand wrapped around his pulsing erection and the unbelievable sensation of Gil within him. At each thrust he experienced a fire-burst of agonizing delight, pushing him higher, and as Gil's hips moved harder, quicker, there seemed to be nothing else in the world, only an overpowering, nameless urgency.  
  
He came at last, chanting Gil’s name like a litany and then, to the sound of Gil’s own shout of triumph and completion, he fell back through white light, sinking down into a dark nothingness.

~~~~

The cool night air wafting in through the open window carried the scent of the sea into the quiet room where Elrond lounged, dog on lap, pretending to read. He was a voracious reader, devouring books with the hunger of one often deprived, which was close enough to the truth.   
  
There hadn’t been all that many books available while they had been on the move. Furthermore, Maedhros, who had discovered it was the one punishment that seemed to make any impact on Earendil’s more intransigent son, had regularly forbid him access to those few books they had.   
  
Gil-galad had at first teased him, asking if he was attempting to work his way through the entire library within a year. On learning a little of the past from Elros, however, he had simply told Elrond to take what he wanted when he wanted it and, should it not be available, to order it.   
  
Elrond, taught by bitter experience to be suspicious of large gestures and vocal declarations, was reassured by Gil-galad’s matter-of-fact attitude. This increased in the face of the King’s genuine interest in his reading choices and his readiness to spend time discussing them.  
  
Elrond was, in fact, developing a strong interest in the healing arts. He had an almost intuitive response towards illness or injury, and was surprisingly empathetic in a practical sort of way when dealing with pain or fear. Blood, gore, and strong emotions held no terror for him.  
  
In the face of almost universal disbelief at the idea of Elrond as a healer, Gil-galad had been unexpectedly supportive of the idea, promising to arrange for his training should he decide to pursue this activity on a more serious level.  
  
Tonight however, in an attempt to educate himself about an area of his family’s history, Elrond was attempting to read about Gondolin. It was a tome written by a respected author, one who had lived in the Hidden City and survived the Fall. He had made his way in the world afterwards by telling the tale of its years, until someone finally had the idea of getting him to write it all down.   
  
Elrond hoped the author had been a better bard than he was a writer, as the text was dust dry. The more he read, the more certain he was that it would be easier to get Glorfindel to sit down and tell him the tale himself, blushes, disclaimers of eloquence and all else that might entail.  
  
Thinking of Glorfindel made him frown slightly. He wondered how late he could wait before casually dropping by without making his intent obvious. He wondered, briefly, if it would be better to wait until morning. He finally decided that stopping by when he took Laslech out before bed would be just about acceptable.

~~~~

Late evening, therefore, found Elrond and Laslech making their way slowly home after an unsuccessful visit to Glorfindel’s rooms, which had proved to be unoccupied.   
  
Elrond, with his usual insatiable curiosity, decided that a not-so-casual scrutiny of Gil-galad’s sitting room window seemed to be called for. As far as he could tell, this could best be accomplished by climbing up onto the parapet of the terrace, which, after checking to make certain he was unobserved, he did.  
  
A careful, precariously balanced scrutiny suggested that the room was either in darkness or else very dimly lit. Elrond made a mental note to go back to see Glorfindel around breakfast time. He found it difficult to imagine even Ereinion being able to convince the shy blonde Elf to stay and face the incuriously curious eyes of his personal staff.   
  
Turning to get back down, he was confronted by the totally unexpected sight of Erestor looking up at him. He was casually dressed in a thin shirt, leggings, and soft-looking suede boots. He had picked up and was holding Laslech, who was licking his face in adoration. Elrond dropped lightly down, took a deep breath, and mentally straightened his shoulders.  
  
“Lovely night for a walk,” they said simultaneously.

~~~~

The first thing Glorfindel was aware of when he came back to himself was the soft crackling of the fire next to him. This was followed by the fact that he lay, utterly relaxed, with his head on a solid shoulder. Strong arms were holding him while gentle hands stroked his hair and back. His body felt strange to him, tired and well used in a different sense to anything he had ever experienced before.   
  
He turned his head slightly and opened his eyes to see Gil watching him, a half smile on his face, his light, clear eyes content. “Welcome back,” he said, placing a soft kiss on Glorfindel’s cheek. His reward was smiling eyes and a more comfortable settling of the blonde head on his shoulder.  
  
Glorfindel stroked his hand down over Gil’s chest and stomach, marveling at the solid feel of him, knowing that he was in exactly the right place and time at last. He did, however, have a question, the answer to which was becoming clearer to him by the minute.   
  
Observing Gil’s slightly self-satisfied air and the proprietary way he was being held, he reached up and wound dark hair round his hand and pulled firmly. Gil slanted a look at him and raised a querying brow.  
  
“Where did the oil come from?” Glorfindel asked softly.  
  
Gil-galad briefly considered lying, but knew this would be a bad beginning. Glorfindel was someone with whom he wished to share very much more than just one night.  
  
”I put it there earlier,” he admitted. “We have had a good chance to get to know one another, we were going to he spending the evening alone, I just hoped that, perhaps…”  
  
“Dalbros and Erestor didn’t really cancel at the last minute, did they?” Glorfindel asked, keeping his grip on the black hair. “They were never invited, were they, Gil?”  
  
Gil rolled his eyes then tried playfully to slap away the hand gripping his hair.  
  
“No, they were invited,” he insisted cheerfully. “I have never planned a long term seduction in my life. I don’t seem to have the attention span for it. No, I uninvited them, this afternoon.”  
  
“You told them not to come?”  
  
“This afternoon,” he confirmed with a sigh, his voice now becoming more serious. He turned to study Glorfindel’s face as he continued.   
  
“Almost since we met I’ve sought your company, found myself thinking of you when we’re apart. This morning I realized just how much I wanted to be with you, and I knew you felt it too. I hoped tonight you would be willing to act on those feelings. Which you were. Therefore the oil.”  
  
“Therefore the oil,” Glorfindel agreed. A thought struck him and he half rose, almost spluttering in his disbelief. “And therefore all that wine! You tried to get me drunk, you - you…”  
  
Gil was shaking with laughter as he pulled the almost speechless Elf forcibly back down to lie on top of him and held him tightly.   
  
“Oh you didn’t have nearly enough to make you drunk,” he disclaimed. ”It was simply enough to help you relax, make you less likely to get up and run if I did something untoward like trying to kiss you. You’re really skittish about that sort of thing till you get used to it, I’ve noticed.”  
  
“You tried to get me drunk.” Glorfindel subsided with bad grace, shaking his head. “I will never, never be able to trust you again. Of all the underhanded…”  
  
Gil chuckled and rolled them over so that they lay facing one another, warm and at ease together, covered by a throw he had pulled from one of the chairs earlier.  
  
“Be honest. Aren’t you just a little glad I am?” he asked, and with an air of finality silenced him with a kiss.


	6. Chapter 6

Erestor was prepared to admit defeat. Half the inhabitants of the Palace complex appeared to be out for an evening stroll, and the gardens offered little in the way of the privacy he was seeking. He decided to leave his quest till daylight, and was about to ascend the final flight of steps that would lead him back to his room when his attention was claimed by a small whimper. Curiosity aroused, he went to investigate. Whatever his expectations, they hardly matched the reality, which turned out to be a sight unlikely in the extreme.   
  
Elrond was standing balanced on the narrow stone balustrade that ran the length of the terrace, apparently studying one of the windows above him. He stood etched by torchlight, which traced the outline of his body, the curve of those endless legs. His hair was caught back loosely and sparkled dimly in the soft light, forming a nimbus around his head. Erestor stopped as though turned to stone and stared. Unbidden, a picture flashed through his mind of that body unclothed, that hair unbound, that head thrown back in similar manner, in ecstasy.   
  
He was brought back to reality by another sad whine. The puppy was watching her companion in bemusement and had finally decided she didn’t like what she saw. Erestor pulled himself together, moved forward on silent feet, and bent to pick her up. As he was being rewarded for this action by having his face thoroughly washed, the Half-elf turned to descend.   
  
For a moment Elrond froze, his body a study in arrested motion. Shadowed eyes met Erestor’s, a momentary look of dismay crossed the young face, and then he dropped down to the terrace with cat-like grace. Erestor waited, curious to see how long the Half-elf would need to recover from the unpleasant surprise of discovering he had an audience.  
  
Elrond stood studying him. Light, either from the torch or the newly risen moon, reflected off gray eyes, giving them a dangerous, almost feral glitter. Erestor’s mind raced. He briefly wondered whose rooms faced this side of the grounds and made a mental note to enquire in the morning. Meanwhile he urgently needed to say something, anything, to set the right tone.  
  
“Nice night for a walk,” he offered in a completely neutral voice. It took a moment to realize the echo he seemed to hear was in fact Elrond offering the same throw-away comment. They stared at each other, silenced by the likelihood of this happening. Elrond’s face lightened. He gave Erestor a quick, interested look from under raised brows as he reached out for the dog.  
  
“Were you on your way somewhere in particular, or are you simply enjoying the night air?” he asked.   
  
Erestor took his cue from Elrond’s approach. “There is an exercise routine I like to perform morning and evening,” he explained. “Nothing complex, just lunges and balance. I’m looking for a quiet corner, somewhere with a little space but also reasonably private.”  
  
Elrond looked thoughtful for a moment, staring into nothingness. Then he put the dog down, pretending he had not first surreptitiously rubbed his cheek against her head, and said, “I think I might know somewhere suitable. Come.”  
  
They went along the terrace, down some side stairs, following an involved and slightly circuitous route. Erestor would have no difficulty remembering the way, though most would soon have been disoriented. They eventually came out onto an area he was fairly certain was for the exclusive use of the King and his household.   
  
Trees, flowers, rosemary bushes, and several varieties of lavender greeted him. Shuttered windows faced onto the garden and a door opened onto a small patio. Restraining the dog, who had been attempting to head straight inside, Elrond gestured vaguely.  
  
“Would this be all right?” he asked. “It’s usually quiet here.”  
  
Ordinarily the prospect of being watched from one of the windows would have made this location out of the question, but when he considered the possible identity of the watcher, Erestor found he could smile and say, with absolute sincerity,   
  
“This is exactly what I was looking for.”  
  
Elrond gave him a pleased sort of a look and sank bonelessly to the ground. They shared a moment of silence before he remembered. “Oh, you don’t mind me staying to watch, do you?”

~~~~

Elrond sat on the grass, leaning back against a tree, Laslech lying close to him, seeking warmth. The wind had risen, rustling through the fragrant herb bushes, teasing at his soft, dark hair. The lamp on the patio had burnt low but the moon, dipping in and out of clouds, provided sufficient light to illuminate the scene.   
  
He watched, absorbed, as Erestor followed the slow, almost sensual routine, dipping, lunging, out and up, moving under a swirl of heavy, night dark hair. Elrond absently stroked the puppy’s ears, while appreciating the effect of dappled moonlight playing across pale skin, occasionally lighting ebony hair.   
  
He had planned to guide Erestor to the quiet corner Glorfindel regularly favoured, but had decided instead on the secluded area onto which his own rooms faced. There had been no premeditation in this; Elrond was a creature of impulse and instinct, often confused by his own choices. A steadily increasing pressure and warmth in the region of his groin suggested this choice had been a good one.

~~~~

The sky was barely light when Glorfindel woke, not slowly but instantly and completely. At some point in the night Gil had woken him, interspersing the soft calling of his name with light kisses. In response to his sleepy murmur, the King had said, “Come, sweetheart, the fire has almost died, the floor grows harder by the minute. I think I can do better than this for us. Let’s get to bed.”  
  
He had followed, the cover they had been sharing draped loosely around his shoulders, while Gil, naked and at ease with his body, led them through to his bedroom. Glorfindel had had an impression of a sparsely furnished room, small but airy, lit by a lamp that had burnt very low. Gil turned to him, his eyes sleepy and smiling, and pulled him into an embrace, removing the wrap with one hand as he bent to initiate a kiss. In moments, Glorfindel found himself being urged over to the bed.  
  
They made love for the third time, in considerably more comfort than previously experienced. The act was quieter, briefer, and yet somehow sweeter, as they chose mutual pleasure above the urge to simply curl up and go back to sleep. Gil persuaded him onto his back this time, and Glorfindel instinctively drew his legs up around his partner’s waist, angling his body as directed by a quick, guiding hand, so as to make the experience both comfortable and satisfying.   
  
The position felt somehow more ‘right’ to him. Some previously unsuspected part of him reveled in the sense of surrender, in giving himself so completely to his partner. He enjoyed holding Gil, being able to stroke his back, his thick, dark hair. Most of all, he loved the fact that not only could they continue to kiss, but also he could see Gil’s face as passion overtook him. He discovered that watching his lover’s pleasure aroused an answering excitement in himself of almost frightening intensity.  
  
They had gone back to sleep almost immediately afterwards, Gil staying conscious barely long enough to withdraw from him. The King still lay sprawled across Glorfindel, his head nuzzled into the pillow and half covered by long, golden hair. Glorfindel, for his part, had one leg still over Gil’s upper thigh and a hand loosely tangled in his hair.  
  
He insinuated his body out from under the King’s and sat up carefully, looking around. The lamp had burnt out, but there was sufficient light now to show him a simply furnished room, decorated in a variety of greens and blues. It occurred to him, hazily, that Gil-galad had a rather good eye for colour, something he had noticed but given no thought to before.  
  
Gil was still sound asleep when Glorfindel left the bed and made his way through to the sitting room in search of his clothing. He knew the King was brought a hot drink followed by breakfast at dawn, and he did not intend to be there when it arrived.

~~~~

Some time after breakfast, Glorfindel’s own uniquely personal view of reality reasserted itself. Self doubt was a habit too well entrenched to be set aside by a few weeks of friendship and an evening of endearments. He was in the garden once again, in his usual corner. He had wandered round his rooms for a time, but he never felt completely comfortable there. He was happier, somehow, in the garden. It was the place where he felt most at ease. In fact, if he closed his eyes, he could almost believe he was back at home.   
  
His favourite memories of Gondolin were of the colourful gardens, the sound of birdsong. He missed the birds of the Hidden City to a degree that regularly surprised him. He had never given them much thought when it and they had been no more than the backdrop to his life. He missed the clean lines of the city, the tall slender towers, and the surrounding mountains, which had always made him feel, incorrectly as it turned out, protected and safe.   
  
He sat balanced between an urge to push away longing for a place that no longer existed, and a suspicion that it might be more comfortable to dwell in the past a little longer than to examine the memories of the previous night.   
  
No matter how convincing it had all seemed last night, no matter how absolutely he had been prepared to trust Gil, morning’s light, unaided by firelight, laughter and wine, suggested otherwise. He found himself wondering if Gil was already regretting the events of the evening. After all, the King had had rather a lot to drink himself, perhaps more than enough to cloud his usually good judgment.  
  
The blonde Elf contemplated his own probable naivety. Having managed, with very little effort, to get Glorfindel naked and willing in his arms, Gil had openly admitted to lying in order to create the situation that had made that possible. There was no reason to believe that, once the novelty wore off, he would have any further interest in continuing a relationship, which for him, would probably qualify as a fairly average seduction. For Glorfindel, however, it had been an act of deep significance.   
  
Feeling eyes on him, he looked up, hoping that, despite a very busy morning schedule, Gil had made time to seek him out. He knew that five minutes in that confident presence would be enough to lay all doubt to rest. Instead of Gil, however, he found himself facing Elrond, accompanied, as ever, by Laslech. The young Half-elf, his hair in its usual disorder, was wearing immodestly sheer gray silk and carrying a small, covered basket and a flask.   
  
Elrond took a moment to persuade the dog to sit – this being the first step in his plan to teach her good manners, as Elros seemed to have no time to spare for it. While doing so, he studied Glorfindel. Elrond had intended some joke about the small likelihood of receiving a decent breakfast from Ereinion, who had a preference for simplicity where the morning meal was concerned. A glance silenced him. The blonde looked terrible.   
  
A flash of cold, white anger showed for a moment in Elrond’s eyes. However, the only witness was Glorfindel himself, and he had other concerns. Elrond took a deep breath, summoned up calm, and then said in a voice that would have been unrecognizable in its gentleness to everyone who knew him, with the exception of Elros,  
  
“I got us breakfast. Let’s go back to my rooms to eat, it’s cold out here.”

~~~~

The breakfast, which Elrond had intended to be shared while teasing facts from Glorfindel to compare against the rumours of his cousin’s bedroom prowess, consisted of little honeyed oat cakes, sliced fruit, handfuls of dried dates and raisins – an exotic and hugely expensive treat – and fruit juice lightly spiked with miruvor. They were alone as Elros was already up and out, his life a round of meetings, discussions, and lessons.  
  
They ate for a while in silence, Elrond savoring the little collection of delicacies he had managed to beg from the kitchen, Glorfindel nibbling disinterestedly on an oat cake, until finally Elrond said in a quiet, firm voice,   
  
“You’d better tell me what happened. Otherwise I will just go and ask Ereinion myself.”  
  
Glorfindel looked up in undisguised horror.   
  
“No, you will do no such thing,” he said, pure fright at the knowledge that Elrond was perfectly capable of doing so helping him to find the words. Impossible to intimidate, and well aware of his reputation, which had taken him some time and effort to entrench, Elrond proceeded to stare down his unhappy breakfast companion.  
  
Finally, looking down at the remains of the oat cake, Glorfindel murmured, “Nothing happened that you’d want to know about. We had dinner, we had some wine, we –“ He stopped at this point, looking for the right words.  
  
“Got naked?” Elrond offered helpfully, and was alarmed to see that, instead of simply blushing as expected, Glorfindel seemed to actually shrink into himself.   
  
The blonde took a deep breath, gave up the uneven battle, and nodded. “All right, call it what you like. Why do you need to know? And why am I answering you?”  
  
Elrond considered his words carefully. “I think I really want to know why you are sitting eating breakfast here with me, what you were doing out in the garden alone. In other words, why aren’t you with him now? I’m trying to understand what went wrong.”  
  
”I left before he woke up. I couldn’t very well stay and be found when he was brought his early morning tea after all.” Glorfindel told him, making one final attempt to prevent Elrond from taking the conversation down unwelcome paths.   
  
Elrond simply continued to stare at him expectantly, and Glorfindel realized that possibly he did need to talk to someone who might be able to help him make sense of it all. Elrond was young in years, but certainly not in life experience, which was what counted. Taking a breath, the blonde poured the words out quickly, before he could change his mind.   
  
“I keep going round in circles. Erestor and Dalbros weren't there after all. Gil lied to them and to me. He told them he had a meeting and he told me they cancelled and I didn't even think it was strange because he kept filling my wine cup - afterwards he joked that the wine was to help me relax. And then, when he kissed me, of course it felt perfect, completely right....”  
  
Elrond sat listening as this tumble of words trailed off into silence, his chin resting on linked hands, his face expressionless. Finally he said, “Glori, tell me something. Did anything happen last night that upset you or made you uncomfortable? Is that what this is about?”  
  
“No, of course not,” Glorfindel exclaimed, shocked, once he had worked out what Elrond was trying to ask him. “How can you ask something like that? Nothing... I mean, I don’t really know if there was anything – unusual – about any of it, I’ve never done this before, but it didn’t seem…” His voice trailed off.  
  
"Never..…”   
  
Glorfindel shook his head, caught by surprise. He had not intended to mention that slightly embarrassing fact. Elrond sat, brows raised slightly, staring at nothing, and thinking his own thoughts. Finally, he got up and went to stand behind Glorfindel, resting sensitive hands lightly on his shoulders. He felt the tension in them, another crime to lay at Ereinion’s door.  
  
“Nothing unusual at all. He just lied through his teeth and tried to get you to drink more than you were accustomed to. He was just being Ereinion, really.”

~~~~

Mid morning found Ereinion Gil-galad seated in his workroom at the large table that passed for a desk. He had dismissed the more conventional design as being too small for his needs. He liked space, and worked best when everything he might need was available and within his sight. He drove his assistants to distraction, but in this one matter, he found it extremely useful to be King. It meant he could simply insist on doing things his way.  
  
He was working on three projects at the moment. There was a long report on the establishment of a new settlement further up the coast. It sounded like a friendly, hopeful sort of place, which he planned to make an effort to visit sometime in the near future.   
  
Next there was a disturbingly incomplete inventory of the contents of the armory at the military encampment at the foot of the Forland Pass, which was the guard post responsible for the security of the main crossing point of the Lhûn.  
  
Finally, he had to finalize the details of a formal farewell dinner for Elros. He would miss his young cousin, whose departure oversea had been postponed as long as possible at Gil-galad’s personal insistence. He had been adamant that Elros first receive the kind of schooling that would benefit a King before sending him to shepherd the growth of the new land over the sea.   
  
He had made a few notes on the page, with the idea of perhaps consulting with Elrond later. The Half-elf made every effort to avoid discussions that referred to his brother’s imminent departure. The attitude was quite understandable to Gil, but he could hardly object to being asked basic questions about such matters as Elros’ preference between red and white wine.  
  
Putting the long, detailed list aside, he reached for the inventory again. He was about to write a note asking for a more complete accounting before he would be prepared to sign it, when a small sound made him look up. Gil-galad was confronted by a sight that made him put down his parchment and lean back in his chair.  
  
Elrond stood watching him work. He was dressed in a sober, conservative outfit: gray leggings, a pale green shirt, and a loose gray tunic with green detail. His hair was firmly braided, not a lock out of place. The dog, for the first time since he had taken charge of it, was absent. He was impeccably turned out, neat to a fault. Gil-galad prepared himself for more or less anything. He knew trouble when he saw it.


	7. Chapter 7

Glorfindel sat quietly as Elrond’s strong fingers massaged his neck and shoulders and felt the tension slowly beginning to drain out of him. In the comfortable silence, the rising wind could be heard, rattling the windows.   
  
“I think I was over-reacting earlier,” he said finally. It was starting to occur to him that he had probably described Gil’s actions in a less than flattering light. “It’s not really about Gil, anyway. It’s about me. I get things tangled up sometimes, explain them badly.”  
  
Elrond snorted. “I was wondering how long it was going to take you to start making excuses for him. Someone needs to point out to my cousin that it can’t always be about what he wants, and it can’t always be where and when he wants it, either.”  
  
Glorfindel shook his head and said, his voice soft and a little sad, “It’s as though I threw him away, made him irrelevant.”  
  
Elrond gave firmer attention to the tense shoulders. “What do you mean, Glori? Threw whom away?” he asked, completely confused at the apparent change in direction.  
  
“Ecthelion,” Glorfindel said simply. “Every day I give up something more, and last night I finally gave him up for good. The worst part is that I try so hard not to dwell on the past that I didn’t even understand what was wrong to begin with."   
  
Elrond continued massaging, keeping his movements smooth and even. “Do you want to talk about it?” he asked quietly.   
  
Glorfindel seemed to think for a minute, then said slowly,  
  
“I knew Ecthelion for years, and I loved him, but I always said no. What happened last night makes him look - smaller somehow.”   
  
Glorfindel paused and then went on more animatedly, “It’s the same with everything – my past, my family, my city, my King. In the beginning, it felt like trying to be two different people, but now I think I’m starting to forget who I really am. No one will talk about the past; everyone acts as though I had no life before this one. I feel lost, cast adrift. Soon the only Glorfindel will be the one brought to shore at Mithlond a few months ago.”  
  
“I don’t know about anyone else,” Elrond said thoughtfully, “but I was never sure if you wanted to talk about the past, or even how much you remembered of it. I wanted to ask you about Gondolin, what it was really like, but I wasn’t sure….”  
  
Glorfindel flashed him a small, quick smile over his shoulder, his face lighting up. “I didn’t think you’d be interested,” he said.   
  
“Talking about something has a way of keeping it alive, so we would both gain from it. I was trying to read about Gondolin, but the only book I could find was deathly dull,” Elrond told him “The writer somehow managed to make even the Fall seem boring. As for your fight with the Balrog….” His voice trailed off in something like horror as he realised what he was saying.  
  
To his surprise and relief, Glorfindel just shook his head in something rather like amusement. “You might even know more about it than I do,” he suggested. “It all happened so fast in the end that I’ve never been clear about all the details.” He leaned back into Elrond’s touch. “If you’re interested, I’d love to tell you about Gondolin. Your roots lie there, after all. Your great-grandfather was my King.”  
  
He started talking in a quiet voice about his city, speaking about small everyday things: her parks and buildings, her people, the birds, the encircling mountains. His voice stumbled a little on occasion as he bit back tears.   
  
Ecthelion was a thread within this narrative as well, someone adored but never surrendered to. Elrond listened to the idealized description and quickly built up a picture of a self-absorbed Elf, large on demands, but with no apparent interest in anyone’s needs beyond his own. He silently applauded Glorfindel’s instincts. He would not have trusted Ecthelion for a moment.  
  
Finally, as he had wished, Elrond heard firsthand about the end of the Hidden City, of his grandparents’ courage, of Dragons and of Balrogs. Ecthelion died, the High King fell. Buildings burned, death rained down on people attempting to flee in terror. Finally, as though it was a small thing, a matter of no great importance amidst all this destruction, Glorfindel described the stand taken by a lone Elf, neither the largest nor the strongest of Turgon’s warriors, holding a creature of fire at the point of his sword while those under his protection escaped.   
  
And he spoke of death: fire and a roar like thunder and a whip of flame, and of smoke, burning his lungs, his eyes, feeling his eyelashes shrivel on his face as he fought a being of nightmares. He had known himself defeated before he began; he was facing something far larger, stronger, older. He had known, also, that he simply had to hold the demon back for a while – just a little while – long enough for the smallest feet, the weakest legs to make good their escape. No longer than that. A life measured once in eternity, now defined in minutes.  
  
He had nearly beaten the monster too, by chance, by luck, by virtue of his determination to hold it off for as long as possible. Only at the last, the whip caught and tangled in his long hair, which he had not been able to find time to braid back. They had fallen together, and Glorfindel could remember his hand shrivelling, lost with his final sword-thrust into the depths of that being of fire and darkness.  
  
He remembered pain that went beyond pain and turned instead to a deep biting cold, and an overwhelming sadness at this ending, at the loss of sun and wind and beauty and love. And then there had been a place of gray. He passed into mist, to emerge again in the boat off the quay at Mithlond, waking from mist.  
  
There was silence for a time, save for the sound of the wind, then Glorfindel seemed to shake himself before saying,   
  
“I wasn’t implying that I regret having been returned like this, even if I don’t understand it. And from the time I arrived, everyone has been wonderfully welcoming. Círdan was kind when I needed compassion and quiet; you and Elros welcomed me. And Gil…” Glorfindel was still for a minute. Finally he said, “Last night it was as though my entire life had brought me to that moment. It was as though everything before had been painted in shades of gray, and I saw colour for the first time.”  
  
He sat quietly, trying to find the right words, while Elrond ceased any pretence at massage and stood instead stroking the shining golden hair that had dragged the Elf to his death. Something caught his eye, and thinking it a trick of the light, he looked closer. Faintly, as though painted on with a fine brush, was a thin line of palest bronze in Glorfindel’s hair. It began close to his scalp and twined down to a spot half way down his back, before fading again into bright gold.   
  
With a fingertip Elrond traced the line imprinted into the hair, careful not to draw the blonde’s attention. He never mentioned it, and to the best of his knowing, no one else ever noticed it, but he understood what he had seen. Written softly, flame in gold, Glorfindel carried the mark of the Balrog.  
  
“Last night I gave Gil the only thing that hadn’t been taken from me,” Glorfindel said at last. “There is nothing else. It was something I would have given Ecthelion, long ago, but…it never felt right, somehow. That’s why I felt bad about it, I suppose. I don’t even expect it to mean as much to Gil as it did to me. There must have been so many before me.”   
  
He smiled wistfully. “It was nice to finally belong somewhere, just for a little while. I suppose I need to learn to enjoy it for what it is and not expect too much. I need to be realistic about something for once in my life.”  
  
Elrond, still staring at the scarred hair, roughly wiped unexpected tears from his cheeks and took a breath or two to steady his voice and bring himself back from the unequal battle on the Cristhorn Pass, to the room in Lindon, the sound of the gusting wind. He remembered briefly his doubts at Glorfindel’s ability to tell a tale of any length, and smiled at himself and his instant judgments. He returned his hands to the strong shoulders and dropped his head so that his chin rested on the top of Glorfindel’s head.  
  
“You have every right to expect to be more than just another name on Ereinion’s list,” he said firmly. “You are nothing like his usual choice, anyway. You’re smart and kind and funny and don’t even understand that you are a hero –“  
  
“I’m not funny, Elrond. I wish I was, but I’m not.”  
  
“Oh, you’re improving,” the Half-elf chuckled. “You just need to stop taking everything quite so seriously. Including Ereinion.”

~~~~

As he made his way to his cousin's office, dressed with the sort of attention to detail suitable for an interview with one of the Valar - or possibly Lord Círdan in a particularly bad mood - Elrond contemplated the less convenient side of allowing people into his life. It was a very new experience for him. Well, there was Laslech, of course, but she hardly required the same sort of concern and involvement Glorfindel needed.  
  
It was one thing to feel empathy and concern for Glorfindel, who was still adjusting to new people, new surroundings and was, therefore, highly vulnerable. It was something entirely different to take the next logical step and confront his cousin concerning his intentions towards the blonde.   
  
He knew Gil-galad’s reputation for passionate but short-lived affairs and had drawn his own conclusions about what had transpired from Glorfindel’s admittedly brief description of their evening. Something had to be said, and Elrond hoped he could avoid being thrown out long enough to make his point.  
  
When he reached the large office Gil-galad usually referred to as his workroom, it was to find the door open and neither of the assistants anywhere to be seen. The King sat with his back to the window, the light outlining his broad shoulders. He was bent over a small pile of documents selected from the larger sprawl on the table. The sun hinted at soft red lights in his lustrous black hair. Faint, daytime sounds drifted in through the open window. The room itself was quiet, peaceful.  
  
Elrond cleared his throat gently, just sufficient to break the silence. Gil-galad, the good soldier, responded immediately. For a moment he stared blankly, then he put down the parchment and leaned back, looking the Half-elf up and down expressionlessly. He nodded slowly, as though something had been confirmed for him.  
  
“Good morning, Elrond,” he said mildly. “Something I can help you with?”  
  
Elrond took a deep breath and released it slowly. He had recognised the routine Erestor had followed the previous evening as one practiced by warriors from the Wandering Companies. Besides their expertise in a variety of the killing arts, they were noted for the mental discipline that gave them, in time, the ability to distance themselves at will from fear and tension. He wondered if he could persuade Erestor to teach him this.  
  
"I wanted a word with you about Glorfindel, if you have a moment,” he said carefully. “You were the one who pointed out that Elros and I owed him for the Balrog, and I suppose looking after his interests should correctly be our responsibility.   
  
Gil-galad continued to study him, his face expressionless. Elrond knew that the matter between Glorfindel and the King was essentially none of his business. Now that he was actually facing Gil-galad, he wasn’t even sure what to say, how to explain his concern without going into detail about a conversation it had not been necessary for Glorfindel to tell him was confidential.   
  
He was, however, determined to it made very clear to Gil-galad that using and discarding the blonde in his usual way was not going to be acceptable. Elrond, who had noticed early that appearances were important in setting a mood, had even gone to the trouble of dressing in a manner that would suggest he should be taken very seriously.   
  
"I just wanted to be sure you realise how disoriented he still is. You do know he’s far from settled, don’t you?” Elrond asked, pushing ahead with the approach he had decided on while making his way to the upper level. “It’s also very difficult for him, I think, to get used to his changed circumstances. For the first time in his life he has nothing of his own and is completely dependant on others…”   
  
The last point had been a mistake. Gil-galad’s eyes narrowed slightly, and he leaned forward, propping an elbow on the table’s edge and resting his chin on his hand, although he remained quiet. That unblinking stare was beginning to affect Elrond’s usually steady nerves.  
  
"You are suggesting - what?" Gil-galad finally asked.   
  
"I'm suggesting that he’s extremely vulnerable right now, and he seems to have developed quite – romantic - feelings towards you. I wanted to be sure you were keeping all these facts in mind,” Elrond said in an even voice.  
  
Gil-galad blinked. "Are you suggesting I’ve taken advantage of him in some way?" he asked in a dangerously soft voice.   
  
Elrond heard the warning, but kept going anyway.  
  
“I’m suggesting,” the Half-elf said with careful patience, trying to pick his words, “that what you might consider a pleasant interlude may seem somewhat more important to him.”  
  
“Ah.” Gil-galad said tonelessly. “Let me see if I’ve understood this correctly. Not only am I taking advantage of the fact that he is completely dependant on me, but I am also actively misleading him and preying on his feelings for me. Is that what you’re trying to say?”  
  
“I think I’m trying to politely express my concern that you might end up treating him like yet another of your casual bedmates," Elrond retorted, his tongue responding without reference to his brain.  
  
Gil-galad had always indulged his two young cousins, ever mindful of the trauma they had survived, and allowed Elrond more or less free rein with his tongue. But this time the Half-elf had gone too far, and he knew it as soon as the words left his mouth.   
  
Gil-galad sat utterly immobile, looking at him. Elrond’s well-defined survival sense told him that, should the King start to get up, running might be the sensible option. Gil-galad’s usually friendly blue eyes had changed. They were very clear, very cold, like a winter sky. Elrond felt as though the air had been sucked out of the room. Finally, in a quiet, even voice, the King said, “What was that?”  
  
Too far down the road to turn back, Elrond stood his ground. “You lured him to your rooms, you fed him alcohol, knowing he drinks very little, you took him on the floor – on the  **floor**! You didn’t even respect him enough to offer him your bed. What else should I think? He trusts you, and worse still, he doesn’t even seem to realise he has a right to expect more from you…”  
  
He never saw Gil-galad move. Elrond’s words were cut off as alarmingly strong hands grasped his arms. His next awareness was of being pinned up against the wall beside the door, held at eye level to the King. Alarmingly, where Elrond would have expected those eyes to be blazing with anger, they were still ice cool. Deadly.  
  
“Is this how Glorfindel feels?” Gil-galad wasn’t even breathing hard. Elrond, who prided himself on being fit and physically quite tough, knew himself to be too far outclassed to even begin to consider struggling. He kept talking, however; he’d survived worse experiences during his time with Maedhros, whom he had irritated beyond endurance on numerous occasions. At least the King was mentally stable. He’d had his doubts about Maedhros.  
  
“I got him to admit that there had been a lot of wine, and that it happened on the floor in front of the fire. And he implied that he knows it wouldn’t have meant anywhere near as much to you as it did to him. It wasn’t right, Ereinion,” he added recklessly. ”I know you wouldn’t deliberately set out to hurt anyone, but I think you might be forgetting that contrary to popular opinion, he isn’t some mysterious hero. He’s confused and alone and… I just wanted you to be careful and not make things even more painful for him. He has too much else to deal with right now. He just needs to feel safe, I think,” Elrond finished quietly. “You seem to give him that.”  
  
The expressionless blue eyes considered him a moment longer, and then he was released. Elrond leaned against the wall, breathing hard. Unexpectedly a hand reached out and began to tidy his hair, which had somehow started to come loose again.  
  
“No one was used, Elrond, give me a bit more credit than that,” Ereinion said quite gently. “I know how vulnerable he is. Not just right now, but probably for most of his … previous life, too. If Glorfindel feels I was less than sincere, then that is to my shame and a matter for me to rectify. I respect the fact that you were angry on his behalf, and I apologize if I hurt you.”  
  
He dropped the hand to rest in an almost friendly manner on Elrond’s shoulder and gave him a very slight shake. “And if you should dare try to tell me how to conduct my private life again - ever - be warned. Next time I won’t be as tolerant.”   
  
Gil-galad released the younger Elf, giving him a slight push in the general direction of the door. Elrond gave him an enquiring look, for once having the sense to keep quiet. Gil-galad nodded and pointed. Elrond, rather to the relief of both of them, left.  
  
Gil-galad went back to the table and looked thoughtfully at the work awaiting his attention. His rule was that business came first, that more personal concerns could not be indulged in until such time as the tasks outlined for the day were completed.   
  
However, Elrond had gone to a lot of trouble, right down to that impeccably tidy hair, before confronting him, and his concern had been genuine, even though less than diplomatically expressed. Gil-galad was good at getting his priorities right. For the first time since becoming King, he left the day’s work unfinished and went instead in search of Glorfindel.


	8. Chapter 8

Glorfindel had spent an unsatisfactory sort of morning. Having no duties or responsibilities had swiftly lost any attraction it might have held, and he intended making a point of asking Gil what plans, if any, had been made for his future. He had never known this amount of leisure in his life, and it was becoming increasingly difficult to find ways to fill the day.  
  
Talking to Elrond had solved little of the confusion he had felt on waking, but sharing the past had certainly helped lift his spirits. He was often surprised by how genuinely caring Elrond could be, especially when he thought no one was paying too much attention.  
  
Glorfindel knew that a large part of his apprehension was rooted in his personal inexperience. He had no idea what would happen next time he and Gil met, nor what was expected of him. What he did know was that if Gil placed as little importance on their night together as he feared might be the case, then something in him would die a little and Ecthelion’s memory would return to accuse him for a very long time.   
  
He was, in fact, busy telling himself to stop worrying until he could see Gil’s response for himself, when, turning to take a shortcut across the lawn, he spotted the King striding purposefully straight towards him.   
  
The previous night rushed back, a tumble of words and caresses, naked skin and life-altering pleasure. Glorfindel felt the colour rise in his cheeks and cursed himself. Gil-galad came to a stop in front of him, giving him an intent look before smiling his greeting.   
  
“You’re a bit of a challenge to find, you know,” Gil commented. “This is my second attempt. The first time I seemed to keep missing you. Where do you get to when you're on your own?” His tone was easy, amiable, but his eyes were alert.  
  
Glorfindel returned the smile, gesturing vaguely. “I just left the stables. I wanted to have a look at Carod; he was limping a little yesterday.”  
  
Gil nodded. “I wondered if you might be there. Are you on your way anywhere in particular, or do you have time for us to talk for a few minutes?”  
  
Glorfindel laughed a trifle wistfully. “Gil, time is something I have more than enough of. Please, whatever it is, go ahead.”   
  
He marveled at the lack of awkwardness in their conversation. Gil had said nothing out of the ordinary, which was only natural as they were in that most public of places - the central courtyard of the Palace, but there was a look in his eye that had not been there previously, a warmth that effortlessly diminished Glorfindel’s concerns. Unbidden, his thoughts flew back and he could almost feel Gil’s mouth on his throat, and was startled by the sudden heat that washed over him.   
  
Gil was watching him with interest, still smiling slightly. “Let’s get inside out of this gale,” he suggested, gesturing towards the entrance leading to the main staircase. “We can’t talk here. Not about the topic I have in mind, at any rate.”  
  
They went inside together, up the staircase and along corridors, finally reaching Gil-galad’s workroom. Once inside, the King closed the door and wordlessly pulled Glorfindel to him and proceeded to kiss him. Glorfindel stopped trying to think and simply responded.  
  
The kiss started slowly and unpretentiously enough, but quickly accelerated into something considerably more than a simple expression of affection. When at last they separated, both were flushed and panting, leaning against the wall and each other. Glorfindel’s long, blonde hair had somehow wound itself around Gil’s arm and hand, and Glorfindel’s hands were under the King’s shirt, pressed flat against warm flesh. There seemed to be very few questions left; Gil, however, had a couple.  
  
“Tell me something,” he asked, between breaths. “Did you feel in any way used, taken advantage of, last night? That I was less than sincere? And where the hell were you when I woke up, anyway?”  
  
“Gil, I didn’t feel ready to let the whole of Lindon know whom you amused yourself with last night…”  
  
Gil broke in firmly. “I did not ‘amuse’ myself, as you put it. Is that the way it seemed to you? I spent the night with someone I haven’t known very long, but who means an immense amount to me.” He leaned in again and emphasized the words with a lingering kiss.   
  
Glorfindel drew back, shaking his head. “Gil, no, of course I didn’t think that, not really. But there will be so much gossip and speculation…”  
  
“What, more than what there is already? They’ve been laying odds on it for the last two weeks, I believe...”  
  
Glorfindel stared into the light blue eyes in disbelief, seeking some hint of mischief, but they were completely serious. Something of his discomfort must have shown in his face because, after returning his stare, Gil leaned forward with a sigh so that their foreheads touched. “All right,” he said eventually. “I’ll give you a little time for discretion, but I am not prepared to act as though we are doing something wrong. It’s enough that I had to hear Elrond’s thoughts on the subject; I don’t want anyone else getting the same idea.”  
  
“Elrond?” Glorfindel asked, puzzled.   
  
Gil nodded, half laughing. “You saw him this morning, am I right? Let me guess - you got trapped into telling him where and how you spent the night, didn’t you?”   
  
They stood, leaning together with their foreheads still touching, Glorfindel sighed. “He’s impossible. Before you even realize you’ve opened your mouth, you find yourself telling him things you didn’t even know you knew... Should I have kept quiet?” he asked with a sudden flash of concern. “I wasn’t discussing you, I just…needed to talk and he’s a good listener, strangely enough...”   
  
Gil was struck by the wistful tone, and wondered for the hundredth time how he would have coped with being drawn out of his time and place and set down amongst strangers with no idea of what was expected from him - no reason for his continued existence. He drew Glorfindel closer, resting his cheek against the waves of soft, golden hair.   
  
“Of course you can confide in him,” he said gently. “And in me as well, remember? At least he’s showing concern for someone other than himself for a change. He seems almost as fond of you as he is of that dog. Considering his opinion of most people, you can take that as a huge compliment.”  
  
Glorfindel turned, his head against Gil’s shoulder, and glanced around the room, taking in the quiet disorder out of which the King was known to be happiest working. The table was in the process of disappearing under the sprawl of documents, although a corner had been cleared to make place for a tray bearing an assortment of bread, cheeses, and fruit as well as an untouched wine cup.  
  
“Haven’t you eaten yet?” he asked, still leaning against Gil and nuzzling his neck softly, not exactly kissing his throat so much as caressing it with his mouth. He was quite content to stay there within the circle of Gil’s arms, savouring the reassurance that closeness gave him. Gil - solid, assertive and confident - was the perfect antidote to insecurity.   
  
“Wasn’t really hungry,” came the answer, close to his ear. “After nearly throttling Elrond, I was more interested in finding you, making sure things were well between us. Food somehow didn’t seem very important.”  
  
He gave Glorfindel one final hug and then released him, standing back to brush gleaming golden hair back from a face that was already looking far more relaxed than when they had first run into one another.   
  
“When I found you’d left, I guessed, rightly I hope, that you probably didn’t want to be there when my staff started wandering through. It wasn’t till Elrond accused me that I though you might have been avoiding me instead. He has a way of making a point,” he added with a rueful smile.  
  
Glorfindel looked concerned. “Looking back, I might not have explained myself properly. I did try and tell him that, but he doesn’t always listen. I was feeling – unsure about a few things this morning. I need to start watching my tongue, I suppose.”  
  
Gil snorted with amusement. “With Elrond?” he asked.   
  
He turned and went over to the table, scrutinizing the tray, before retrieving a peach slice. "Don’t waste your time. If he wants to know something, he’ll stop at nothing. He currently has nothing better to fill his time with. He’s bitter and angry and unhappy, and he makes it his business to share the pain. You like peaches, don't you? “he added, offering the fruit to Glorfindel who, joining him at the table, surprised him by resting a hand lightly on his wrist, leaning forward and allowing himself to be fed.   
  
He licked the juice off Gil’s fingers almost unthinkingly and asked, “Angry about what? I know he’s unhappy, though getting him to talk about something when he doesn’t want to is impossible, but…”   
  
Gil, who had been watching Glorfindel with a mixture of curiosity and increasing interest, selected an orange segment, which he held offered the blonde after first sampling it himself. “For most of his life, the only family he had was Elros. At the end of the month, they separate for life. Elros goes to Númenor; Elrond stays here.”  
  
He paused, his face thoughtful. This was a decision that he had found puzzling and unlikely from the start. The twins were very dissimilar but nonetheless close. He would have expected them to wish to remain together. No amount of careful probing on his part, however, had elicited an explanation from either of them.   
  
“They made their choices for whatever reasons appeared relevant to them at the time,” he continued. “Elros seems content enough with his lot. Elrond, I think, is finding it very hard to come to terms with losing his brother. Elros is the strong one – Elrond just puts on a very good face.”  
  
Gil stopped talking abruptly as Glorfindel, who was still holding his wrist, turned it and began to lick the trail of nectar which had dripped down from the orange. Gil exhaled sharply in response. He found another orange portion and teased it lightly against Glorfindel’s lips, then watched, fascinated, as the tip of a pink tongue licked it slowly, sampling before accepting. Deep blue eyes watched him steadily from under golden brown lashes, as Glorfindel slowly sucked the fruit into his mouth.  
  
"Considerably less inhibited than you were yesterday, aren’t you?” Gil murmured, reaching out a hand to stroke the fair hair which, worn loose for a change, fell in golden, sunlit waves to below Glorfindel’s waist. The only other person Gil-galad could think of with similar hair was his aunt Galadriel. “When exactly did you turn into such a tease?”   
  
Glorfindel was sucking Gil’s fingers now, running his tongue over each in turn, lapping like a cat. His eyes were sparkling with mischief as he released them. ”Are you objecting?”  
  
Gil’s response was to wind his hand through the silky hair, closing it over bunches of soft brightness and drawing the blonde towards him, his eyes studying moist lips with serious intent.

“I like to think I learn something from every new experience,” Glorfindel said, drawing back slightly from Gil, blue eyes now alight with laughter. “May I show you what I have learned from you already? Perhaps you could tell me if I need to give extra attention to anything - if there are areas where further study might be indicated?”   
  
Gil raised an amused eyebrow. “I’d be honoured to assist you in your studies,” he said, slowly allowing the hair to slide free from between his fingers.

For a moment they stared at one another, then Glorfindel leaned closer and began slowly running his hands down Gil’s body, before finally sinking to his knees and allowing cheek and forehead to take the place of hands, rubbing and pressing until reaching the place where hardness strained against the cloth of Gil’s leggings. He looked up then, sudden uncertainty in his eyes. Gil, both hands now kneading and bunching the soft, gold hair, met his glance and nodded wordlessly.

Glorfindel undid fastenings, moved inconvenient clothing aside. Then, with an unexpectedly clever mouth, proceeded to give Gil a detailed demonstration of what he had learned the previous night, with a few extra touches direct from his fertile imagination.

~~~~

Although normally acutely aware of his surroundings, Elrond had been wandering aimlessly, his thoughts alternating between the sound of Glorfindel’s voice as he described Gondolin and the look in Gil-galad’s usually friendly blue eyes and his almost unnatural speed. Sudden awareness returned as he realized he was heading straight for a black haired Elf, who was busy wrestling awkwardly with a large crate.   
  
“Why are you struggling like that? Get someone to see to it for you,” he said, speaking without prior thought for the second time in a matter of hours. As the words left his mouth, he heard the underlining of the unsaid division between himself and Erestor who, as a junior advisor, would obviously not have someone available to haul crates around for him. He wondered idly at what point his tongue had finally taken control of his brain.  
  
Erestor blinked, surprised by both the question and the tone of voice, but chose to overlook the hopefully unintended lack of courtesy. “I needed to make a few purchases, and I though I could get them to my room without being late back to work,” he said by way of explanation. He straightened up, pushing braided hair out of his face and grinned. “This is heavier that I thought and taking longer than I could ever have imagined.”  
  
He was about to ask jokingly if Elrond was offering to help him, but remembered in time the current chaos to be found in his room. He had purchased the majority of the items on his list and had simply deposited them on the floor or bed until he should had time to reorganize. He had been forced to take the morning off work, which had required some careful explaining, but Erestor was wonderfully inventive at need and had found plausible reasons for his absence.   
  
He took in Elrond’s appearance with interest, noting the conservative clothing, the tasteful mithril hair clasps, and the painfully braided hair. “You must have something important to see to, please don’t let me keep you,” he said, smiling to take the sting from the words. At Elrond’s blank look, for he had completely forgotten the small matter of his appearance, Erestor said, “Well, the clothes, no dog….”  
  
Elrond had recently been more or less pinned against a wall by a very large, rather angry Elf. Gil-galad had seriously frightened the Half-elf, though it was not something he would readily have admitted. His cousin’s speed and strength had been completely unexpected, and it would also be a long time before he got over the shock of those ice-cool eyes. Reaction set in, and it made his words abrupt.  
  
“My choice in clothing is no concern of yours,” he snapped, ignoring the fact that the outfit belonged to Elros. “And I had no idea I was required to take my brother’s dog with me everywhere I went.”   
  
He had locked Laslech inside when he left and, accustomed to spending her days with him, she had whimpered. The sound had followed him all the way across the garden, each small whine an accusation. Feeling guilty was a rare experience for Elrond, and he disliked it intensely.  
  
Erestor’s amber eyes regarded him thoughtfully. “I apologize for presuming, My Lord,” he said in his most formal tones, bending to retrieve the crate which he had put down while they talked. It contained ornamentation for a room he suspected the Half-elf would not be visiting any time soon, if at all. “However, in the future, you might consider taking your ill humour out at the source, instead of on whoever happens to be unlucky or unwise enough to cross your path.”  
  
Hefting the crate, he nodded with distant politeness, almost unbalancing himself in the process, and gritting his teeth, set off back to his lonely and extremely untidy room. Elrond stared after him, for once unable to come up with any kind of an appropriate response. Earlier the Half-elf had thought things were as bad as they were likely to get. He had been wrong. The day had actually managed to get worse.  
  
With a final glance in the direction of the waning figure of Erestor, who had not looked back, he headed for home, and the one person – albeit four-footed – who he could rely on to still welcome his company.

~~~~

They were sitting in the box seat beneath the window on the far side of the room, Glorfindel leaning back against Gil’s chest, his head against one broad shoulder, with Gil’s arms loosely round his waist. The window looked out over the far side of the grounds, towards the stables, and was high enough to ensure privacy.   
  
“You needed a break,” Glorfindel said lazily. ”If that mess on the table is anything to go by, you still have a lot to see to today.”  
  
“No more than usual,” Gil said ruefully, “Anyone who thinks being King of Lindon is glamourous should come and spend a few days in this room. It would soon change their ideas. It’s never ending. I can’t believe some of the things that end up being my problem.”  
  
“At least you have something to complain about,” Glorfindel said, one hand toying with Gil’s fingers that were currently laced together and resting on his stomach. “I’ve rested, and I understand that I needed to do that. I’ve met the people you seem to think I should know. I can find my way around without getting lost. Surely that’s enough? All this time on my hands isn’t good for me. I need to feel I’m doing something, being useful in some way.”  
  
“Well, you did manage to find something useful to do with part of your day, at least,” Gil chuckled, turning his head to breathe in the clean fresh scent of the fair hair spilling across them both. “I know you said you’d rather wait for tonight, but I feel completely selfish. Are you sure I can’t…?”  
  
“I need something to look forward to.” Glorfindel chuckled. “Otherwise the day just stretches ahead endlessly. That’s the heart of the problem,” he added, more seriously, tilting his head back to look at the King. “I don’t know why I’m here, Gil, in fact I have less than no idea. I remember falling into darkness, I remember waking on the boat, but there’s nothing else between. If I was given a purpose, I somehow failed to retain the memory of it. “  
  
He settled his head back against Gil again, smiling, before adding, “One thing I’m sure of, though. I am quite certain I wasn’t sent back to provide an erotic break in the day for the High King.”  
  
“And here I was thinking the Valar really loved me,” Gil said, stroking hair back from smooth skin, as well as out of his mouth, so that he could rest his cheek against Glorfindel’s forehead. “I don’t know what they want from you either, sweetheart. Foolish of me, it never occurred to me that it was bothering you, which it naturally would be. I suppose I just thought that in time you would tell me what you wanted to do with your life.”  
  
“If only,” Glorfindel laughed wryly. “I lie awake at night worrying about it. I remember Círdan telling me there must have been a strong purpose, and then I think that maybe I won’t be where I should be, do what I should do, misuse this second chance…”  
  
“Círdan,” Gil said thoughtfully. “Most of my life when I’ve needed advice or suggestions, that’s who I have turned to. I think the time might have come for us to see what he thinks your role should be. In addition,” he added, pressing a quick kiss to warm skin, “to your singularly important job of taking my mind off such important problems as which wines to serve at Elros’ farewell dinner.”


	9. Chapter 9

“No!” Glorfindel said flatly. “Absolutely not!”  
  
Gil-galad’s eyebrows shot up. He knew that Glorfindel, though not usually forceful in expressing an opinion, still had very much a mind of his own. This adamant response to what had appeared a reasonable suggestion was, however, completely unexpected.   
  
A few days after their conversation relating to Glorfindel’s future plans, Gil-galad had gone to speak to Círdan, who he knew would already have been giving the matter thought. He also knew that Círdan would prefer, in his usual quiet way, to wait until, as had happened in the past, Gil came to him for advice.  
  
Círdan, who was spending a few days at the center of government, was in the suite of rooms kept for his use. He was having a quiet morning indoors, building a scale model to demonstrate the modifications he wished to make to the standard coastal trading vessel. He looked up from the plans spread out before him and nodded a wordless greeting.   
  
Gil-galad waited, as accustomed, until his foster father had finished familiarizing himself with some detail. Círdan moved away from the table and over to chairs placed to catch the sunshine slanting weakly in through the nearby window. Winter would soon be upon them.  
  
They sat and talked lightly of small matters, mainly concerning the preparations being made for the departure of the last ship to travel, with the blessing and guidance of the Valar, to Númenor. Gil-galad was careful to avoid asking about the model being constructed on the work table; Círdan could be somewhat enthusiastic on the subject of design. Eventually, without too much effort on Gil-galad’s side, the conversation shifted round to Glorfindel.  
  
Cirdan had obviously given the subject of Glorfindel’s future some thought. Sensing this to be the reason for Gil-galad’s visit, he settled himself more thoroughly into his chair, folding his hands across his lap. The sunlight touched his hair, giving it the appearance of mithril.  
  
“I do feel he has been given more than enough time to accustom himself to his surroundings,” Círdan said judiciously. “There has been a tendency to regard the elapsed time since Glorfindel last walked Middle-earth as eons long, when in fact Gondolin fell quite recently. A few things may have changed, but after all, it is not as though he has been sent to start over in the midst of one of the mortal realms. “  
  
Gil-galad knew exactly how lost and disoriented Glorfindel had been, but thought it best to be quiet and allow the discussion to flow. Instinct also firmly suggested that he say nothing that might alert the aged Elf to his changed relationship with Glorfindel. Círdan was a little old fashioned about such matters.   
  
“Be that as it may,” he said, refusing to be drawn, “I have no idea how best to employ him. They sent him back with no hint as to their reasons …unless you were told something?” It wouldn’t have surprised Gil-galad. The Valar thought well of the bearded Teleri.  
  
“One evil has been defeated, but not all,” Círdan said firmly. “Others will rise. You have been sent a warrior who was high in Turgon’s esteem. He fought and acquitted himself well in open warfare, and he has faced and defeated one of Morgoth’s creatures of darkness. Who better to place as commander of your army?”

~~~~

Glorfindel sat in the room where they had become lovers, and heard Gil-galad out without interruption, before offering his unambiguous response. Gil, in the act of bringing them both wine, frowned slightly. He handed Glorfindel his goblet and then perched on the arm of the chair, leaning slightly against the blonde and toying with his shining hair.   
  
“I don’t understand,” Gil admitted. “You trained for war for most of your life, you were one of Turgon’s senior commanders, you had the personal skill to defeat a Balrog, you are the perfect choice. You bring experience, expertise, a reputation…”  
  
Glorfindel got up abruptly, put his wine down on a nearby table, and walked over to the window, where he stood looking out at the gathering darkness. There was a sense of isolation and sadness about the blonde Elf, but Gil-galad stayed quiet, giving him time to gather his thoughts and choose his words before expressing an opinion. Without turning, Glorfindel said,  
  
”So. I fought in a few notable battles, and I challenged a Balrog. This fits me to be commander of your army?” he asked. At which point Gil realised that the air of stillness heralded not sorrow, but annoyance. “Have you even thought this through, or are you just interested in giving me something to do that will look impressive? Something suitable for the King’s lover, perhaps?”   
  
No, Gil-galad amended. Not annoyed. Angry. Before he could interrupt with a protest, Glorfindel continued, “You have no real interest in how I might feel about this, have you? The whole idea makes no sense, Gil. Have you even stopped to consider what my reputation is really based on?”  
  
Gil-galad considered attempting to dispel the gloom and bring some warmth into the room by lighting the lamp, but chose instead to stay seated and do nothing that might stem the flow of words. This angry intensity revealed an unfamiliar side to Glorfindel, one which Gil found both intriguing and slightly unsettling. Furthermore, he was almost pleased to discover that, when roused, Glorfindel expressed his views completely without restraint.  
  
“If you want to explain, I’m listening,” he said quietly.   
  
The even tone, perfected during numerous military councils as a means to gain attention and calm heated tempers, made Glorfindel pause to take breath. The blonde gave the offer consideration, then nodded slowly and finally turned back to face the room. The light from the window outlined his body and his shining hair, but left his face half shadowed. Even so, Gil-galad could see the change. Glorfindel’s customary openness had been replaced by tension and a brooding sadness  
  
“The first time I saw dead Elves was at Alqualondë, by firelight.” He stopped, frowning, following some private train of thought. “Did you know there were fires?” he asked, his eyes seeking out Gil-galad’s.  
  
Gil met his gaze and shook his head; this feature of the Kinslaying was unknown to him. When he merged the words ‘fire’ and ‘Alqualondë ‘, the picture created for him was of the ships burning on the far shore.   
  
Glorfindel nodded again, half to himself.   
  
“I suppose lamps were knocked over, torches dropped. There was house to house fighting down near the harbour,” he said, his voice softer, anger giving place for a time to memory. He started to prowl the dusk-filled room. “There were little fires everywhere when we arrived. What I remember are the sounds of fire crackling and of sobbing. Many of the dead were still lying where they had fallen. Their kin had no idea what to do with their bodies. The Quendi had no experience of death…”  
  
Gil studied his wine as he listened. He seldom, if ever, thought of Glorfindel as one of the remaining Exiles from the time of the Oath, which, of course, he was. For the first time since they had met he sensed, behind Glorfindel’s sweetness, the age and memories of one of Turgon’s most valued war leaders. The soft voice continued.  
  
“We got used to the idea of death after that, of course. The Helcaraxë was a swift teacher. I lost my mother to the Ice. It opened at her feet. One moment she was there, the next, not.”   
  
Glorfindel shook himself and crossed the room briskly, as though in retreat from the memory, to where Gil sat. He retrieved his wine and drank before continuing.   
  
“That was how I learned about death. War came later. After the Crossing there was always fighting, always some enemy, some threat. After the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, I knew I had seen enough. I commanded Turgon’s rearguard, Gil, and I saw what we left behind us; bodies beyond count, death and horror. We who survived went back into the Hidden City and closed the gates behind us. We never rode out to war again.”  
  
He stared, unseeing, down at the chessboard which displayed a game in progress. They had just discovered they were well-matched opponents, one being as easily distracted from the intricacies of the game as the other. He smiled without humour.  
  
“War came to us instead. We practiced and prepared for over four hundred years in case we had to ride out again, and war came to us. And we weren’t ready. And yes,” Glorfindel looked up sharply, a trace of his earlier heat returning. “I killed a Balrog. People forget a small point about that. When I killed it, I went down into the dark in its company.”   
  
He picked up one of the crystal pieces, turning it round and round between his fingers, and then said with finality, “No one should be asked to remember his own death. I do. I can describe every moment, every thought.”  
  
They silently contemplated this, giving the horror the respect it was due, then Glorfindel came and sank down cross-legged on the rug in front of Gil. He gave him a level stare and said,   
  
“My experience is of horror and defeat and death. I would not appoint someone with that background, nor would I feel safe serving under him. You need a commander who still believes, Gil. Someone like yourself, young enough not to remember The Tears. Someone,” he concluded, “who was not in Gondolin at the end.”  
  
Gil-galad drew a breath, followed by another sip of his wine, waiting to make sure Glorfindel was finished speaking.   
  
“I’m sorry you doubted my motives,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “It surprises me that you think I would give anyone a senior position based on the fact that we share a bed. It’s hardly my way. I badly need someone to take command of the army – I have more than enough work as things are without seeing to that as well on a day-to-day basis. Círdan and I both thought you the best choice. Why not at least consider the idea?”  
  
Deep blue eyes, the colour of a summer sky, regarded him through the gloom. The blonde warrior looked down at his hands and said expressionlessly, “I suppose it would be easier for you, having your lover doing this. It would make things simpler. You could oversee matters without having to worry about the details.”   
  
Glorfindel listening to his own voice speaking as though from a distance. He felt as far from Gil at that moment as though he had been returned to the Halls of Waiting while they spoke. He turned away to face the unlit fireplace, continuing to toy with the chess piece.  
  
He knew that, as usual, he had expressed himself badly, had failed to clarify his bone-deep resistance to the idea of sending another Elf out to fight and die anywhere for any reason. Glorfindel‘s lesson on the priceless value of life had been a hard one, never to be forgotten, and it would forever colour his view of war. It was not something most people with a warrior background would understand and he was a little surprised that Gil-galad had even tried.   
  
He was about to make one final attempt to explain his feelings when, without warning, he found himself enveloped from behind in a hug, and a voice close to his ear said,  
  
“I would never, never try to force you into something you felt was wrong for you. I had no idea you felt this way, which is a bad excuse, of course, because I should have asked. But if not this, then what? I can see how much you need to have some kind of responsibility to fill your day. This has gone on for long enough.”  
  
Glorfindel turned around and, letting his head drop against a broad shoulder, leaned into the hug, feeling the steady hand stroking his back, the strength in the arms around him. Anger and frustration and sadness drew back before the warmth and genuine concern that was Gil-galad.   
  
“I’m a good swordsman,” he said slowly, firmly banishing all thoughts of Ecthelion. “It’s a skill I think I’d like to teach. It would give me reason and chance to spend more time with your warriors, and it would show them I have something of value to offer.”   
  
He stole a look up at Gil, who was watching him with a carefully expressionless face and, with a soft laugh, shoved the King lightly.  
  
”It just involves demonstrating attack and defense, and talking about it a little. Strange I suppose, but if I have to explain how to do something, and answer questions about it, I quite enjoy myself. It’s just – making small talk. I have no skill for that.”  
  
Gil turned so that they could lean together comfortably. “You’re getting better at it all the time,” he said firmly. “And if teaching is what you want to do, it will be easy enough to arrange “   
  
He bent his head slightly, nudging Glorfindel’s face with his chin in an effort to persuade him to look up, and then kissed him, closed mouth to begin with, but slowly teasing at his lips until eventually Glorfindel let go of the last of his annoyance and, turning his head, responded. It was a slow, very sweet kiss, with the promise of later.   
  
At the end, Gil-galad, with his usual, incorrigibly, irreverent sense of humour, drew back slightly and murmured in Glorfindel's ear,  
  
“If you want to attract large numbers of students, all we need to do is offer the lessons under the title of Basic Balrog-Slaying.”

~~~~

“Is he still out there?” Elros asked, craning his neck back in an effort to see out the window without getting up. Elrond was curled up in a chair across the room with Laslech lying at his feet. She was watching Elros carefully while he ate as on occasion he had been known to drop delicacies where she could find them. Cheese was a firm favourite, as were apple cores.  
  
Unlike his twin, Elrond had a clear view across the garden, including the sheltered corner where a black-haired Elf was bending and twisting with sinuous movements that stopped just short of dance. Elrond had given up all pretence of not watching; he was hardly likely to be able to convince Elros of his lack of interest. His brother always knew what he was thinking.   
  
Erestor had arrived, as agreed, every morning just after sunrise and each evening around sunset. He was invariably dressed as he had been the night Elrond had first offered him the use of their private garden, and he carried himself in a manner that suggested he was at ease there. His body language said very clearly, however, that he had nothing to discuss with the inhabitants of the nearby suite of rooms.  
  
Elros got up and came over to where his twin sat, and leaned against the chair while eating the remains of a pastry. “What, exactly, did you say to him to make him work so hard at ignoring you?” he asked, his tone reflecting long experience.  
  
Elrond tilted his head to look up. ”Nothing much?” he suggested hopefully. Elros had left the subject of Erestor alone for the first few days, but was now taking an interest. This, in Elrond’s experience, did not bode well. It usually involved questions, advice, sometimes even personal intervention.   
  
It crossed Elrond’s mind that this unsolicited involvement in his often complicated life was about to become a matter of history, but he pushed the thought aside firmly. Elros, possibly thinking the same thing, rested a hand on the back of his brother’s head and pushed, not very gently, but with great affection.  
  
“In case it escaped your attention, he is doing a wonderful job of ignoring you while making certain you can see him,” he chuckled. “How bad could it have been, anyway? He obviously wants you to go out and talk to him.”  
  
Elrond gave his brother a jaundiced look from the side of his eye. “I very much doubt that,” he said firmly. “He was pleasant to me, and I was…well, it was a bad day and I took it out on him, I suppose. At least, that’s how he saw it. I don’t think talking to me is something he wants to repeat. No, this is just a convenient place to exercise.”  
  
Elros considered the Elf in the garden. He had a mind to go out and speak to him, but was stopped by a hand on his arm. “Don’t you dare,” Elrond said softly. “I hardly know him – how would it seem, my brother goes to make peace for me with an almost total stranger? I would look a complete fool.”  
  
“A stranger who makes use of our garden twice daily at your invitation?” Elros asked lightly. However, he knew the tone. Elrond wanted things left alone. For a change, this apparently had less to do with stubbornness or a misguided sense of pride than with an awareness of having done something wrong.   
  
Elros wondered, not for the first time, but with increased anxiety, how his brother was going to cope on his own. Elrond was useless when it came to things like discretion and diplomacy. Well, he was just going to have to learn. Elros sighed and gave one more push to the back of the dark head, so like his own, yet so unlike.   
  
“I think that if you caused discomfort between yourself and someone else, it should be you who tries to make amends,” he suggested, straightening up and tidying his hair back. “I would also think it a good idea not to leave it too long.” He jerked his head in the general direction of the garden. “Someone with those looks has no need to spend too long waiting on your change of mood. He’ll soon find some one else to entertain him.”  
  
He turned to leave, surrogate parenting complete for the morning, to be stopped by Elrond asking hesitantly, “Are you busy all day today?” He was leaning down to play with Laslech’s ears, his face hidden behind his dark curtain of loose hair.  
  
“I might have time for dinner tonight,” Elros replied, only half joking. “I have meetings, maps to study, a lecture from Círdan on the importance of maintaining a strong fleet or some such topic…” He stopped and looked at his brother. “Is something wrong? Did we have plans, was there something you needed?”  
  
Elrond shook his head. “No plans, no. And nothing I needed. Just asking, really. Showing an interest,” he finished, looking up and smiling convincingly. Elros studied him carefully for a moment, but he had no time for more questions. Giving his twin a final searching look, he left.   
  
Elrond turned back to the window. He was in time to see Erestor begin his final sequence, the one that involved a back bend that made Elrond’s mouth go dry. He paused, then dropped his glance to Laslech, who was busy trying to chew the end off her tail. She was still not quite reconciled to the idea that it belonged to her. He took a very deep breath and got up, stretching cat-like and shaking back his troublesome hair.  
  
“Come on, girl. Let’s go outside,” he said with a sigh. “What’s the worst that can happen, anyway?”

~~~~

Erestor heard the door open and carefully kept his eyes focused on a point well away both from both the patio and the informal path leading back to the public areas. During his twice daily visits to this private comer of the Palace gardens, he had been very careful to show no curiosity about the whereabouts of the young Princeling whose sharp tongue and imperious attitude had startled and…disappointed him more than he would have expected.   
  
The desire to keep a distance between them was obviously mutual; Erestor had been left very much to his own devices.  
  
He was balanced on one leg, his weight on the ball of the foot, his arms stretched gracefully up and back, when he was struck just below the knee by a small, solid, and highly excited body. He hit the ground in a confusion of limbs and hair and for a moment lay motionless, with his eyes closed. His first coherent thought was of how ridiculous he probably looked.   
  
The perpetrator of this disaster was standing behind him, her front paws on his shoulder and her back paws tangled in his hair, ecstatically licking his face. Erestor turned onto his stomach, gently urged the dog onto the ground, and rolled to sit up. He was busy pushing the heavy black hair out of his face before he finally looked up, only to find Elrond standing in front of him, an expression of genuine horror on his face.   
  
They stared at one another and then, unable to help himself, Erestor started to laugh. What most struck him as funny was that this was the second time Laslech had instigated an unlikely, and potentially uncomfortable, meeting between them. Elrond gave him an uncertain look, then bent to pick up his offending pet, who gave a yelp of alarm at being handled almost roughly. Erestor leaned back on his arms and trying to restrain his laughter, protested,  
  
“No, no, let her be. I was probably too good a target to ignore.” He met Elrond’s eye, his own sparkling with mirth. “Put her down, she was busy trying to apologise.” He heard himself and caught back the laughter, realising his comment could easily be thought to contain a reference to prior events.  
  
Elrond quirked an elegant brow, and set Laslech down again before reaching out a hand in assistance.   
  
“Unlike me?” he suggested.   
  
Erestor took the proffered hand and moved gracefully to his feet, and found himself a little closer to his helper than planned. Their eyes met more seriously.  
  
“I was coming to say I was sorry for my lack of manners,” Elrond admitted, finding it surprisingly easy to acknowledge fault once he made up his mind to it. “You were right – my temper was better aimed elsewhere. A bad morning is no excuse, I realise, but…” He paused, bit his lip lightly, shrugged. “I apologise. Elros is right, I just don’t seem to know when to stop sometimes.”  
  
Erestor had stepped back, giving them both the security of a little more space. He found it disconcerting to be quite so close to the King’s cousin. Elrond was wearing leggings and a light, sleeveless tunic, and his unbound hair danced loose about his face and shoulders in the light breeze. He smelt, faintly and unexpectedly, of violets. Erestor tried to stop wondering whether the scent emanated from the Half-elf’s hair or his skin, and to stop picturing the more obvious ways to determine this.   
  
He ventured a smile.   
  
“I was late and harassed and took it more to heart than was called for,” he said in return, frowning unconsciously as he automatically started to tidy his hair, pulling it back and fastening the side braids behind his head to keep it all in place. Elrond stepped behind him, unasked, and their fingers met over the simple tortoiseshell clasp.   
  
For a moment, Erestor’s entire awareness was centered on that touch, then his hair was fastened and Elrond was stepping back from him. He turned, their eyes met, and the air between them became alive, almost tangible, pulsing with expectation. Erestor was about to speak, to offer whatever random words happened to find their way onto his tongue, when the bell heralding the third hour from dawn - the hour when work officially began - started chiming. Life’s realities reasserted themselves. Giving the Half-elf a wry smile he said,   
  
“Well, I am now officially late, my Lord, so, if you will excuse me…”  
  
“Elrond,” the Half-elf said quietly. Erestor shot him an enquiring glance. “I mean, my name’s Elrond,” he explained, his eyes and body language showing just a fraction of uncertainty. “Please don’t call me ‘my Lord’. That’s only for formal occasions, and even then … I don’t know that I’ve ever really grown comfortable with it”  
  
“Elrond, then,” Erestor responded with a smile, meeting the grey eyes.   
  
Elrond bit his lip, a quick flash of tooth that sent a thrill of desire through Erestor, and said, with a small, unsure movement of his hands, “I’ll see you later, perhaps?”   
  
Erestor, his thoughts racing, nodded. The interest in the storm grey eyes matched his own, but the situation argued against light dalliance. It was a well-known fact that Gil-galad was very fond of his two young peredhil cousins. Erestor, however, had spent most of his life living dangerously.   
  
“Tonight,” he said, with a smile of irresistible charm. “I’ll be back tonight.”

~~~~

Dressed in something more suitable for public view - and there was nothing wrong with yellow silk really, if one had the colouring for it - Elrond took Laslech for her long anticipated walk, following their usual route through the grounds.   
  
Talking to Erestor had been a good antidote to his earlier, rather somber mood. They had said little of any substance to one another, in fact Elrond could barely remember more than ten words of the exchange; the smile, though, lingered in his thoughts. That smile, Elrond thought, coupled with those sparkling, jewel eyes, might conceivably have the power to melt rock.   
  
Laslech, having spotted a friend, was currently doing everything in her power to get her companion’s attention and encourage him in the right direction. Her objective was sitting under a tree, his back to the trunk, looking for all the world like a wood Elf. Elrond let her run loose, and smiled as she charged over and flung herself on Glorfindel, about whom she was passionate.  
  
He followed her with a little more dignity, halting to look down at Glorfindel, who was rolling the puppy over onto her back and rubbing her stomach. “You spoil her,” Elrond said disapprovingly. “She needs to learn to be more restrained with people. Elros won’t want her carrying on like this.”   
  
He was unaware of the way he compressed his lips at the end of this sentence, as he pushed back the thought of the dog and his brother boarding the ship, crossing the sea, irrevocably gone. Glorfindel saw the look, made an intuitive guess as to the cause, but kept silent.   
  
Elrond surveyed him, curiosity in his sea grey eyes.   
  
“Nothing better to do at this hour of the day than sit out here under a tree and think?” he asked casually. He had known something was wrong from the moment he saw the golden haired form sitting still and pensive at an hour that would normally have found him searching for ways to occupy his time.   
  
Glorfindel gave him a curious look. He was far from clear as to why or when confiding in Elrond had become a natural process. He had shared very little of his thoughts or fears with his few previous friends or acquaintances, yet he found he was strangely comfortable with the situation.  
  
“Gil-galad and Círdan had the idea of giving me command of the army,” he said. “It was hard to get Gil to see what a really bad idea that is, and I doubt that he’s managed to persuade Círdan yet.”   
  
Elrond, who had first-hand experience concerning Cirdan’s inflexibility, grinned. Glorfindel, who had known there was no need to explain his feelings about war and death to Elrond, who seemed to understand such things almost instinctively anyway, returned the smile wryly, then closed his eyes.   
  
“I was sitting out here wondering, for the hundredth time, what the Valar wanted from me when they sent me back, and how I will know it. It was easy enough to turn down Gil’s offer. I doubt they would send me back to do something I was hardly successful at originally – I fought in some memorable disasters, after all. It reminded me, though, of how easy it would be to say no to something, not realising…..”  
  
He sighed softly and glanced sideways at Elrond. ”I know it must be something fairly obvious. After all, it would hardly be fair otherwise.”  
  
Elrond had been listening to him with one eyebrow slightly raised and a strange expression on his face. As Glorfindel’s words trailed off, he gave a small snort.   
  
“And you, naturally, expect the Valar to treat you fairly and with justice, don’t you?” he asked sardonically.   
  
Glorfindel shot him a startled look, and saw that his companion was completely serious. “Elrond, hush, you can’t speak so of the Shining Ones,” he said quickly, respect instilled in him since childhood making itself known.  
  
He received an almost patronizing smile from Elrond, who shook his head, then settled down properly on the grass, his legs crossed, elbows on knees, and chin resting on linked hands.  
  
“The Valar are neither fair nor just, my friend,” the young Half-elf said quietly. “They have their plans and designs, and we are nothing to them, only pawns on their gaming board. They move us where they will; there is no choice, there is no justice. Just their will and their amusement.” He smiled at the older Elf’s look of horror. “You don’t believe me, do you?” he asked, softly. “Listen, then, and I will tell you all about the fairness and justice of the Valar.”


	10. Chapter 10

“Because he doesn’t feel it’s the right choice for him,” Gil-galad repeated for the fifth time. He had somehow managed to keep his voice calm and neutral throughout the conversation, but he was beginning to do some serious teeth-clenching. The one person he would consider to be more stubborn than Glorfindel was Círdan, and he was currently having this opinion reinforced by the silver-haired Elf.  
  
They were in the large office Gil-galad referred to as his workroom, the scene of many similar discussions, all of which had ended with Cirdan’s viewpoint prevailing. This meant that, for the Teleri, the probability of his opinion being disregarded was somewhat less than unlikely. Tea had been brought in upon his arrival and he was currently sitting with a large cup in his hand while his fosterling paced the room. He sighed to himself and prepared to explain yet again. This matter was far too important to leave unresolved.  
  
“Ereinion, consider please,” he said firmly. “The Valar are not fools. They would not do anything so unusual – nay, so unheard-of - as sending one of our kind back in this manner without a solid reason. I cannot be brought to believe that this purpose would merely involve passing on the sword skills of Gondolin, interesting though I do not doubt that study to be."  
  
Gil-galad had reached the end of the room and was looking out of the window in the general direction of the stables. Something appeared to have caught his attention, but he soon turned back resignedly.   
  
“If he’s determined he doesn’t want the position, I can hardly insist that he accepts it, Hiren. What is wrong with letting him do something he feels comfortable with while he settles in? Especially if it gives him an opportunity to start mingling with the warriors without the pressure of leadership.”   
  
Cirdan shook his head in disbelief. “Ereinion, you are the King. If you insist upon something, it must be done. We have discussed this before.”  
  
He had lost no opportunity to discuss it, Gil thought wryly. He rarely contradicted his foster father. This was partly due to a reluctance born out of respect but also, partly, because it was seldom that they disagreed on a course of action. True, they were often motivated by different reasons, but Cirdan had raised him after his father’s death and Gil was content to appear to give way in a discussion, when in fact he had simply seen an aspect that had originally been overlooked. If Círdan took this to mean his view had prevailed Gil was prepared to let him believe so.  
  
This practice, which had started as a courtesy born of a warm, open nature and a desire to make sure Cirdan continued to feel important in his life, was slowly becoming problematic. He had known for some time that it needed to be addressed, but had previously lacked incentive. Glorfindel, he realised with something like surprise, provided a motive more than sufficient to make him dig in his heels and insist.  
  
Gil returned to his seat, ignoring the tea that had been poured for him. He would have preferred a glass of good, strong dwarf brandy, but mid morning was hardly the time for that particular indulgence, never mind how much his backbone needed stiffening. Mentally he took a breath.  
  
“When you raised me, Hiren, there were two things which you paid particular attention to as I recall it. Accepting responsibility and making decisions.” He turned and met his foster father’s eyes, “In this instance I have decided that Glorfindel should choose his own path, and I take responsibility for any consequences. I believe that whatever the Valar have in mind will happen without me trying to second-guess them.”   
  
Círdan opened his mouth, glanced at Gil-galad’s set face, and was silent for a moment, gathering his thoughts. Ereinion, he had noticed, tended to be altogether stubborn and non-communicative when the subject of Glorfindel arose.   
  
“Ereinion, if you have conceived a personal dislike for this gift from the Valar, or have concerns relating to the amount of time he appears to spend with your impressionable cousin, then I fear you are simply going to have to rise above them. If this is behind your reluctance to insist on his involvement with the army…”   
  
Gil-galad took a deep breath, and considered his options. Eventually, knowing from past experience that once Círdan had an idea in his head it not only lodged, but swiftly became immobile, he sighed and admitted defeat.   
  
“Hiren, sit down. There’s something I think I had better tell you.”

~~~~

Elrond sat in silence for a few minutes, looking down while he smoothed his fingers back and forth over the grass as though considering its texture. Glorfindel took advantage of the lull in their conversation to stretch out on his side, propping himself on one elbow. The normal morning sounds of life in the Palace complex continued as usual, but somehow failed to intrude on the tree shaded area en route to the stables.  
  
“This happened after we joined Ereinion, only days after Maedhros handed us over to him,” Elrond said eventually, breaking his silence. He glanced at Glorfindel. “I may as well tell you about that, too. Ereinion is one of your favorite subjects, after all. Don’t blush, you know he is. And if he isn’t, then you need to question the way you spend your evenings.”   
  
Glorfindel gave him a dark look, though biting back a smile, and returned his attention to the puppy. There was a story here that would be told in its own time and not before. Elrond gave the smile a satisfied look and nodded.  
  
“Everything changed after the time they’re calling the War of Wrath, when the Powers came out of the West, and the earth moved and shook and the sky was darkened. Eventually Maglor feared for our safety and hid us inland. At the end, we were sent to the High King, who happened to be our closest kinsman left this side of the Sea.” Elrond, sitting cross-legged, his back very straight, spoke quietly. His eyes were fixed on some distant point, and his usually mobile face was empty of expression.   
  
“We were sent to our new guardian under cover of night, not with Maglor, who had always taken care of us, but with Caradur, a Sinda Maedhros had befriended and who stayed on past the end, unlike most. He never liked us much. Maglor told us in parting that he would receive a warmer welcome from the High King than he felt ready for, but that he would see us later, when matters were more settled.”   
  
He smiled wryly. “You would have liked Maglor, Glori. Ever the optimist. I knew there would be no ‘later’, but why shatter his illusions? Things went quietly enough till we were close to the King’s camp, then Caradur insisted that we announce ourselves in style and ordered Elros to raise and carry Maedhros’ banner. And he refused. He usually did as he was told - I was the one who said no and was beaten - but this time….this time he told Caradur to see to it himself.” He paused, his expression reflecting the respect he had felt for his quiet, cooperative brother that day.   
  
Glorfindel, who had recently learnt the horror of how Elrond and Elros came to be raised by the Sons of Fëanor nodded agreement The attack on their home had been carried out beneath that same banner, on the night the Haven burned and Dior’s daughter had sought death, whilst her children were captured and carried off mere hours ahead of aid. Elwing’s son had been right to refuse.  
  
Elrond shrugged slightly, as though casting off memory.  
  
“It was almost midnight when we finally arrived. There was no moon, and all we found to begin with was an open space and a few fires, in fact it looked like no major campsite I had ever seen before. These were Elves who had come out of the West and chosen to fight alongside the High King’s army I remember most that they had no tents, and they lit no watch fires. It may have been lack of need or just not their practice, no one seemed to know. Once we were pointed in the right direction, though, the King’s encampment was easy to find.”   
  
He grinned slightly. “You’ll understand why when you’ve known him longer. There were guards set about, and everything was well lit, orderly. That’s his way; he’ll wander out in dead of night to make sure they’re awake on watch or that the fires are built up properly. He’s been a soldier most of his life, he’s a good commander.”  
  
Laslech chose this moment to get up from where she had been lying to amble over and collapse next to Elrond, rolling easily against him. Glorfindel had no idea why anyone thought this was Elros’ dog. The animal had decided from the beginning where her world was centered. Elrond rested a hand lightly on her back, and continued talking.   
  
“We were taken straight to his tent. You couldn’t mistake it, there was an armed guard at the entrance because, saviours from the West or not, there were strangers in the camp. We had spent so much time being hidden from him, being dragged away at speed from anywhere he might be, that I had half forgotten it was because he meant to rescue us, and I can remember feeling nervous. And tired, really tired.”  
  
Elrond drew his knees up, wrapping his arms round his legs, and his eyes grew more distant with memory.  
  
“We went in and a tall Elf was sitting on a chest, polishing a knife. I thought he was probably younger than he looked, and that he also seemed tired. His hair was in two simple braids down the front, and he had the bluest eyes I’d ever seen in my life. He sat looking at us for a while, then he nodded and said, ‘Skinny. We’ll have to feed you up a bit.’ And then he smiled, Glori, and it felt as if we belonged there.”   
  
The feeling so clearly mirrored his own on first meeting Gil-galad that Glorfindel actually blinked, before nodding and smiling at the memory.  
  
“He’s always like that, isn’t he?” he said. “He knows how to make situations feel comfortable.”  
  
Elrond raised both brows in surprise. “He was sent to the relative safety that could be found with Círdan when he was very young, after the Nirnaeth Arnoediad. Then, when his father died, he became an orphaned dependant with no home to return to and no close kin to speak for his safety, surrounded by Elves who looked down on Noldor ambitions …surely he told you about it?”  
  
Well, no, Glorfindel thought. We seem to focus mainly on my troubles, don’t we? Aloud he said, “We’re still busy getting to know one another, Elrond. Confidences take time. Anyway, I’m curious. What does all this have to do with the Valar?”  
  
Elrond, who had been trying to decide if he would get away with asking what Glorfindel and Ereinion discussed, or if they actually talked at all, came back to the thread of his story immediately. His face closed and he dropped his eyes. He rested his hand on Laslech’s head and starting to finger her silky ear.  
  
“Not that night,” he said. “The following week.”

~~~~

They had been given a place to sleep in the corner of a storage tent, as well as furs and a couple of blankets to wrap themselves in, a jug of water and two plates containing what they assumed to be leftovers from the evening meal. Their belongings were already stacked neatly in the corner. Gil-galad, who had come personally to see them settled, had looked around with a rueful expression. “It’s a bit rough, I know, and unwelcoming, but I wasn’t expecting you so soon and we weren’t prepared. Tomorrow I’ll see to it that you have a few basic comforts.”   
  
The brothers had exchanged glances. They had slept in worse accommodation on a regular basis. Elrond, however, established his reputation immediately by asking, “Will we qualify to sleep in beds instead of on the floor?”   
  
Elros kicked him but it was too late, as usual. Gil-galad frowned slightly at the slender, defiant-looking young Half-elf. Deliberately provocative, his instincts told him. Well, he had been through enough to have earned the right to a little provocation.  
  
“You’ll have beds tomorrow,” he said evenly, a tone which, had he known, was to become a regular feature in his dealings with this cousin. “I have no intention of rousing two of my warriors to tell them they can spend the rest of the night on the ground. We’ve had a long week, they need their rest. I said I’ll see to this in the morning, and I will. For tonight, make do as best you can.”

~~~~

They were on the road for a week. True to his word, the following day the King made certain that his cousins, the children of Eärendil, with their heritage as princes of both Gondolin and Doriath, were given their own tent and decent horses. Everything was quite basic, including the food. This was an army on the move at the end of a bitter campaign, not a pleasure trip, as Gil-galad pointed out to them.   
  
At the end of the week they came to a predetermined spot on the seashore, set up camp and waited. They were divided, as always, into two groups – those who followed the High King, and those newly arrived from the West, whose sojourn on the Hither Shore was set to be brief. There was little, if any, interaction between the two; they marched together, but that was the sum total of their sense of kindred.   
  
From early the following morning, Elves began to arrive. They gathered in small groups, and either erected tents, or else settled under the open sky in a manner more conducive to the Elven desire to be at one with nature. They waited beside the sea; tents and banners as far as could be seen, proud and bright against the sky. Lords from across the Sea, waiting to leave, alongside Lords living in exile, waiting to hear their fate; whether or not they could return home.   
  
The twins had kept to their tent, at the request of their cousin the King. The weather was inclement, there was nowhere to go, it was no hardship to obey. Mid afternoon they heard the sound of silvery trumpets and looked outside, but whatever was happening was hidden from their view. Several hours later, though, one of the King’s senior commanders came to them and told them to make ready to be presented to one of the Mighty.  
  
A short time later, dressed in their best – in other words their cleanest – tunics and leggings, and wearing the cloaks Gil-galad had found for them as soon as he saw the lamentable state of their cold weather clothing, they made their way to the edge of the camp as instructed. Unexpectedly, they were met by their cousin himself, and two of the quiet Elves from Valinor. Gil-galad looked the twins up and down quickly.  
  
“Elrond, what is wrong with your hair? Why does it never look tidy?” he muttered, hurriedly trying to tuck wandering strands behind elegant, if slightly rounded ears. Admitting defeat, he glanced from the corner of his eye to their two companions and then, in very quick Sindarin, he said, “Don’t be alarmed by this. Eönwë the Herald sent for you. He probably just wants to take a look at Eärendil’s sons, have a discussion about your future, nothing to be concerned about.”   
  
The fact that the High King himself looked anything but unconcerned was small comfort to them, either then or a scant half hour later when they were left at the entrance to a pavilion of some kind, set near the water’s edge, slightly away from all others.   
  
The structure consisted of a frame of sorts, hung with some fine, shimmering fabric of a type unknown to them, which eddied and swirled softly in the wind, undefined colours rippling and shifting unsettlingly. The sand around it lay flat and calm, as though untouched by the wind, and there was an air of strangeness about it all that made Elrond, the more sensitive to atmosphere, shiver. Elros rested a reassuring hand lightly on his arm as the drapes parted before them and a tall, very slender, light-haired being gestured them forwards.   
  
Afterwards they had disagreed about many of the details: the clothing worn by the Herald, the décor of the interior of his pavilion – Elrond always maintained there were plants growing in pots and placed at intervals around the perimeter, while Elros maintained to his dying day that they grew unfettered in the sand and looked as though they had been there for years. The ground beneath their feet was patterned and coloured, giving the appearance of a mosaic, though still having the consistency of sand, and two globe-shaped lamps hung down from the frame on threads as fine as silk, casting a soft silvery glow, closely akin to moonlight.  
  
The being – for he seemed in some indefinable way far more than an Elf – appeared to study them for a time and then sank gracefully onto a cushion, gesturing them to sit as well. The lamplight turned his pale hair to a shade close to silver, and caused his violet eyes to glitter strangely. He smiled, and it was not a comforting sight, infused as it was by no true warmth.  
  
“Children of the Mariner,” he said softly, and his voice whispered and echoed with a faint, strange accent. “Bearers of the blood of both First and Second born, descendants of Melian. A choice I am given to lay before you. It has been decided, for your father’s sake, that to you alone of those termed Peredhil will it be given to choose the kindred amongst which you will be numbered. Know that all choices are good, and all choices will be binding from now until the Breaking of the World.”   
  
There was no sound save the murmur of the sea inside this pavilion, where they sat amongst the unnaturally blooming flowers, and even the waves seemed to have drawn back to a distance, the sound coming faintly through the strange, swirling drapes. The Herald sat surveying them, his face expressionless, resembling something carved from marble.  
  
“You may choose, of course, as your hearts dictate. None shall presume to sway your choices. However,” he continued, studying their faces, “I offer you these words in guidance. If you choose to follow one and the same path, then the eventual fate of Middle-earth, as you call it, is hidden in shadow and sorrow even from the eyes of the Lords of the West.”  
  
He paused to give his words weight, and now even the sea appeared to have stilled. The strange, silvery lamps continued their unflickering glow, the wind still skittered around about, moving not so much as a single grain of sand from the coloured mosaic that surrounded them. After giving them time to digest his meaning, he continued.  
  
“Should you display the courage and will of your father, and should you choose separately, one to be a Lord of respect and standing amongst the Firstborn, the other to be a King amongst Men, first ruler of a land the Valar, even now, are setting aside for the use of those of the Secondborn who have kept faith, this result would see the ones you name Valar most satisfied. Out of this choice, and this alone, do they see a sweet, final harvest for those who remain on this Hither Shore.”  
  
“Separately?” Elros’ voice was little more than a whisper. They had been together since before birth, shared the fears, horrors and small triumphs of their harrowing and unusual life, the thought of being separated…  
  
“One, an Elven lord of respect and renown, the other a King whose name will live down the ages of Men and Elves both. Your separation would be a small price for the promise of a final dawning of peace at the end of the labours of both your people.”  
  
“How long do we have to decide?” Elrond asked bluntly, and Elros felt a rush of love for his brother and his habit of confronting things head on rather than attempting a more subtle approach.   
  
“There is no time to spare for this,” the Herald replied inflexibly. “You must decide now.”   
  
They looked at one another in silence, the horror of the choice being asked of them creeping up on them slowly like the incoming tide. Elros found he was holding his brother’s hand tightly, and loosened his grip a little. They communicated by facial expression alone, as they had learned to do in the time since they had been taken from their home by those who had come with fire and sword and changed their world.   
  
“We have never been apart. How dare you ask this of us?” Elrond asked finally, driven by the edge of fear he was seeing in Elros’ eyes. He had never sounded less certain about being defiant. There was a coolness within this strange pavilion that was slowly chilling his blood. All he wanted to do was to get this over and done with and leave. He was far from certain how much he trusted their newly encountered cousin the King, but Ereinion Gil-galad, for his many faults, would never look at them with this air of cold implacability.  
  
“The choice must be taken,” the Herald said firmly. “There is little time left, and this is all I will have to spare for you. You may choose to remain together, and disregard the needs of future generations; that is your right. But, whatever your decision, it must be made now.”  
  
“We need to talk to someone – we can’t decide this without guidance…” Elros let his voice trail off. In truth, no one would be able to help them pick the best road. This nightmare was theirs alone. He glanced at Elrond, who at that moment looked very much younger than their years. He was starting to be afraid, and it was showing. Elros hated it. His usually insanely self-confident brother never showed fear, even when he had pushed Maedhros past endurance, past the rescue of Maglor’s interceding voice. He took a deep breath.  
  
“So, you are telling us to decide today in favour of a future that one of us will definitely never live to see?” he asked quietly. The silvery head nodded wordlessly. Elros considered the Herald, then looked thoughtfully at his brother. Elrond was the one who carried traces of their foremother Melian, not him. Elrond had feelings that were more than intuition, sight that looked through deception as though reading an open scroll, and a voice filled with enchantment.   
  
Elros had other strengths: calmness, thoroughness, a sense of duty and responsibility. He loved his brother dearly, but his mind found it difficult to entertain the idea of Elrond as a King. A great Elf lord someday, perhaps, but a Mortal King? He shook his head, an unconscious smile of affectionate denial on his lips.   
  
“We have to do this,” he said softly to his twin, meeting wide grey eyes with his own, calmer stare. “And we have to do it properly. And we can’t be selfish about it. If you would rather, I will choose for us.”  
  
“…but this isn’t right…” Elrond began, but he was quietly interrupted by his brother.  
  
“We are in no position to judge if it is right or not, my brother. All we know is the preference of the Valar. I think we have to carry out their wishes. And, knowing me, knowing you, I think it would be best if I took the path of our Secondborn kin, while you remain within the shelter of Elvenkind.” Elrond made a gesture, but then dropped his hand and simply sat staring at his brother with disbelieving eyes, shaking his head slightly in denial. “I think you have the possible makings of an Elf lord one day,” Elros explained gently, with a sweet, sad smile, “and that I will make a far more likely King than you.”

~~~~

“And that was it?” Glorfindel asked sitting up, outraged. “But that was no choice at all. That was…..”  
  
Elrond nodded, quite calmly. “A ‘choice’ handed to us when we were barely of age, and amongst strangers. There was no one we could turn to for advice. Had Maglor been there we would have gone to him, but he and Maedhros were busy plotting the theft of the Silmarils, and we had only known Ereinion for a week. In your words, no choice at all. We just fell back on the habits of a lifetime; Elros always tries to do the right thing, I always used to follow his lead.”  
  
“But what did Gil say when you told him? Surely…” Glorfindel was finding it difficult to drag out the appropriate words for this. Elrond’s matter-of-fact description of the Herald, his pavilion, the way the options were put to them, had chilled him with its quiet, implied horror.  
  
Elrond shook his head. “We never told Ereinion. At the time he was still an unknown, and before we left we were told to hold our peace, let the matter stay between us and the Valar. Later, it was just better left unsaid. He would have felt guilty for not going along to support us. As it was, we just told him and Círdan that this was how we had chosen, for our own good reasons. You’re the first to know otherwise.”  
  
He looked up at Glorfindel as he said this, his face younger than its years, very uncertain, but with a hint of stubbornness to the line of his mouth.  
  
“I only told you because you needed to be warned. You were so willing to believe that their motives would be fair and good and right. I had to show you that sometimes they aren’t fair, and they don’t always make sense – they just maneuver their pieces as they choose, and we must pay their price. Barring accidents, I will live forever, or close enough. And Elros – will have a life span longer than Men count normal, but still less than nothing as we reckon it.”   
  
Glorfindel looked down at the hand resting on the puppy’s – Elros’ puppy’s – head. Elrond had drawn his fingers back to avoid hurting her, but his knuckles were white. He was holding himself very still, as one does when attempting to control the response to great pain. Glorfindel reached out unthinking, to touch, to offer what comfort he could, but Elrond wasn’t there, his rising marked by a startled yelp from Laslech.   
  
“I’ve talked about this enough now,” he said in a tight, controlled voice. “It happened, it’s done. I just wanted to warn you not to trust to their guidance. Rather make your own road, let things happen as they will.”  
  
Glorfindel, too, had risen, and they were watching one another almost cautiously. As he looked into strangely blank grey eyes, instinct told the blonde to talk calmly about simple things for a few minutes, give Elrond a chance to regain his balance after sharing this story which had been locked away inside him up until now. However, the opportunity for this vanished instantly at the sound of an approaching voice.  
  
“Ah Glorfindel, a few moments of your time, perhaps? There is a concern I would like to discuss with you. And Elrond, I hardly need to mention that yellow silk is hardly suitable outdoor wear.”


	11. Chapter 11

Glorfindel wondered, considering the circumstances under which he and Elrond had been interrupted, if it were possible for Cirdan’s arrival to have been more ill-timed or unwelcome. He was aware of Elrond drawing a deep breath, which he held for several heartbeats before he released it. He could see Gil-galad behind Círdan, attempting to appear to be no more than an interested observer, and resolved to discuss that act of avoidance with him later.  
  
Glorfindel’s impulse to escape was curbed rather less by his natural honesty – he was a terrible liar – than by his lack of any convenient excuse for leaving. He also hoped he could manage to distract Círdan before Elrond decided to respond to the criticism of his clothing, which Glorfindel suspected would have the effect of turning a lecture into a confrontation. He therefore said quietly, “How can I help you, my Lord?”  
  
Círdan took his arm, and indicated that Glorfindel should walk with him, gesturing in the general direction of the lake, a small body of water closer in size to a large pond, which was encircled by a tidy gravel path. Benches had been set around it at regular intervals, and it was Círdan’s opinion that it was all far too regimented, reflecting the Noldorin love of order and control, but there was no denying that the area was regularly frequented by much of the Palace’s population.  
  
He was concerned at Gil-galad’s revelation of the growing relationship between him and this Elf the Valar had seen fit to return from the dead. Kings, to his mind, needed to marry and produce heirs, not have affairs of this nature. He intended to broach the subject later, very carefully of course. For now, there was something else which caused him concern and about which he also had strong feelings.  
  
“Glorfindel, his Majesty tells me you are reluctant to accept the position that he has offered you. I am certain that you realise he has been looking for someone suitable to place at the head of his army for quite some time now. I wished to make certain you had given his offer your full consideration.” He realised that Glorfindel had stopped walking, and did so as well, although keeping a hand on the firmly muscled arm. “I can assure you, we would not have considered this had we any doubts as to your ability. After all, the probability that the Valar sent you back for just such a reason is too strong to be denied.”  
  
Glorfindel stood listening to this monologue, which was being delivered with all the weight of authority, age and experience that Círdan could bring to it. He made no attempt to interrupt or respond, knowing he was no match, verbally, for the ancient Elf. He was normally at ease with Círdan, certainly, but the idea of trying to argue with him was too bizarre to entertain.  
  
He happened to be facing Gil, and took the opportunity to watch him, something he never tired of doing. He was therefore in a position to notice the look of discomfort on his face, and the way this hardened into something closer to annoyance at the point where Círdan stopped referring to ‘his’ wishes in favour of ‘ours’.   
  
He knew Gil-galad avoided confrontations with his foster father, claiming it was because of the love and respect he held for him. Glorfindel, however, had spent his entire youth woefully failing to live up to his father’s expectations, and had both seen and heard enough in the short time he had known Gil and seen him with his foster father to have formed his own conclusions.   
  
He was so busy studying Gil and wondering if this was the point when he would finally contradict Círdan that he completely forgot about Elrond, still tightly strung and sensitive after finally sharing his memories of a frightening and life altering experience. Glorfindel was abruptly reminded by a cool, toneless voice that cut through Círdan’s words like a knife.  
  
“Assuming the Valar had anything in mind beyond sowing confusion, whatever they intend might still be far in the future.”   
  
Elrond had moved while speaking to place a light hand on Glorfindel’s free arm. He was carrying himself very erect and his face was expressionless. “It may be something as simple as passing on his sword skills to someone whose need of them will be vital someday. You have no way of knowing this, my Lord, any more than I do or Ereinion does. Glorfindel needs to follow his own instincts, and if they speak against the position you had in mind for him, so be it. It isn’t your choice to make.”  
  
Círdan, predictably short of patience with someone young, inexperienced, and clad in yellow silk in the middle of the day, snapped, “Your manners are lamentable, young one. Not purely your fault of course, but even Maglor should have known to teach you to hold your tongue while your betters speak.”   
  
Elrond was quiet for the one moment it took him to confirm that Círdan had just insulted the only person who had shown him kindness from the time his mother had died until he had been placed in Gil-galad’s household. He then let his tongue pick its own words  
  
“Indeed, my Lord. And he was also at great pains to teach me how to determine who my betters actually are. I would think that, as King Turgon’s great-grandson, decisions concerning one of his warriors would be more my concern than yours.”  
  
“I think not,” Gil-galad interjected, before Círdan could catch breath to respond. “You both seem to be overlooking a small detail here. I have been High King since Turgon’s death, something I’ll thank you to remember, Elrond. Glorfindel’s future is my decision, not yours.”  
  
Glorfindel felt light and disconnected from the growing argument. The only thing that registered clearly was Gil’s annoyed declaration of control over his life. He shrugged loose from both Círdan and Elrond, and turned so he could look directly at the King. His temper had always been very slow to surface, yet Gil-galad had somehow managed to make him really angry twice in as many days. As the target was Gil, he was more confident in expressing this anger than he might have been with anyone else.  
  
“You are High King, and I owe respect to the title and its holder, and you will never have less,” he said, meeting and holding the light blue eyes and picking his words carefully. “But the king who received my oath of loyalty died the day Gondolin fell. I am not property to be disposed of as you or anyone else sees fit. I am free to offer my loyalty where I will, and I give it willingly to Idril’s grandson.” He turned to catch Elrond’s disbelieving stare and, placing left hand to forehead, bowed the correct degree. “This Prince of Gondolin can decide my future. I leave it in his hands.”  
  
And turning, Gondolin’s golden warrior strode off, leaving them to watch his departure in silence, save for Gil-galad’s disbelieving mutter of “What the…?”  
  
Eventually Círdan turned to Elrond. “I hope you will not attempt to claim an authority which is well beyond both your right and your experience…” he began.   
  
“Beyond my right?” Elrond asked sharply. “Really? I had no idea I’d been declared illegitimate, my Lord. When did that happen? He’s quite right, you know. Ereinion is High King, but Elros and I can certainly claim authority over someone who sees himself primarily as a citizen of Gondolin.”  
  
“It is a great pity you are so unlike your brother,” Círdan snapped. “I am regularly convinced that he is the one who should have been numbered amongst the Firstborn.“  
  
Laslech, having considered her options in this sea of raised voices, had quietly located herself behind and to the left of Elrond. Some implied threat in Círdan’s raised tone made her nervous, and she attempted her first serious growl, causing Gil-galad to snort with laughter. Elrond favoured him with a dark look before returning his attention to Círdan.   
  
“Perhaps you need to have a chat with the Valar about that,” he said tartly, remembering the silent pavilion and the cool, emotionless voice of the Herald telling them to choose. “They neglected to state a clear preference.”

~~~~

Several hours after these events, Gil-galad was alone in his workroom, looking with interest and not a little longing at the map of the recently established town about which he had previously received a report. He had been sufficiently interested to request further information and the small community had been quick to oblige.   
  
Few people ever realised how much interest he took in these matters, or the extent to which he would have enjoyed the challenge of overseeing the development of a settlement of this type himself. There was no place in his life for such adventures, of course. His interest, therefore, had been suppressed, but never completely stifled.  
  
A small sound in the general vicinity of the doorway made him look up. Elrond, wearing a fairly subdued-looking blue tunic, was standing halfway into the room, waiting to draw his attention.  
  
“May I speak to you?” his cousin asked, once he saw he’d been noticed. Gil-galad nodded, leaning back in his chair and stretching thoroughly. If he was honest, a few extra hours‘ sleep would have been useful, though he was more than happy with the reason he had missed them.  
  
Elrond came over and stood looking down at the map with interest. “Where is this?” he asked after a minute, shooting Gil-galad an inquiring look. The King traced along the outline of the coast with one finger down to the Havens, orientating Elrond, who nodded his thanks. They studied the map for a while in companionable silence, Gil-galad wordlessly pointing out details and getting nods and glances in reply. Eventually, however, Elrond straightened up and said quietly, “I need to apologise to you. I went too far. I forgot you were the King. I spoke to you as my cousin, and I was disrespectful to your rank.”   
  
Gil smiled slightly, keeping his eyes on the map. It was an error Elrond would never have made even as recently as half a year ago. He was finally starting to believe he was safe and in a place where he no longer had to watch every word with care.  
  
“I think it’s Círdan to whom you owe the apology,” he suggested. “You weren’t directly rude to me, after all, just dismissive, which I’m prepared to overlook. And you were at least half right about having some kind of hereditary authority over Glorfindel. It’s still too soon for him to regard himself as anything other than a citizen of Gondolin, after all. You might think twice about actually attempting to use it, though.”  
  
Elrond’s face had taken on a stubborn expression. “I am not apologising to Círdan,” he said firmly. “He never has a good word to say to me or about me, and today it happened once too often. He had no business insulting Maglor. He did the best he could with us.”  
  
Gil-galad allowed his face to reflect the satisfaction he felt on hearing this. He had also felt Círdan’s comment to be misplaced; he was a firm believer in loyalty and Maglor had raised the twins to the best of his considerable ability.  
  
“I think he was more interested in making a point, Elrond. I truly don’t think it was his intention to insult Maglor; had it been, I would have said something myself. As you say, he cared for you and Elros, and that you were angry on his behalf is good and right. Only next time,” he suggested with a quick, affectionate smile, “you might consider being angry with a little more diplomacy.”  
  
They exchanged glances and Elrond looked away first, giving a half nod. “I’ll apologise for being rude, because I should respect his age,” he agreed. “But not for what I said.” Gil-galad decided he lacked the will to pursue matters further, and simply hoped the apology went better than he somehow suspected it would. Instead he moved on to a subject he had been avoiding for as long as possible.  
  
“I was wondering where you’d prefer to be seated tomorrow,” he asked. “You can sit with Elros, of course, but it might confuse some people. I thought either with my aunt or else next to Glorfindel….?”  
  
“Tomorrow?” Elrond had returned his attention to the map and was studying it with unexpected interest.  
  
“Your brother’s formal dinner?” Gil-galad reminded him mildly. Elrond neglected to look up.  
  
“Oh, that. I wasn’t planning to attend, you can leave me off the list. Why have they put the market over here, with less access to the road?”  
  
“So that there’s no interference with passing traffic. It’s accessible enough, just not intrusive. I’ll be interested to see how that idea works. And yes, you are coming. This is a formal dinner; you have to be present.”   
  
“Have to?” Elegant brows were raised above cool grey eyes.  
  
Gil-galad’s probable response was interrupted by Glorfindel rapping lightly on the doorframe and he greeted the blonde with something close to relief. Before the apology he had been practicing in his head could be uttered, Glorfindel said, “I came to apologise. I was rude beyond belief to you. Of course I recognise your authority, it was just that…”   
  
“...just that I acted for all the world as though I owned you, and you, quite rightly, put me in my place. We were both at fault, but I was more so than you.”  
  
Glorfindel smiled, his look warm and affectionate. “Then we were both wrong, we have both apologised, and now we can let it rest, if you will?”  
  
Gil-galad’s answer was to reach out and slide an arm lightly round the blonde’s waist. “Indeed, let it rest,” he agreed. “I have a more pressing argument to engage in.” He turned his attention back to Elrond who was more or less ignoring them, apparently engrossed in an account of the detailed research into likely types of farming to be attempted in the area, which had poor soil due to its nearness to the sea.  
  
“There’s no point in ignoring me, cousin. This is far from settled and the dinner’s tomorrow, which means we can’t put this discussion off any longer. My original plan was for you to be seated with Lord Círdan, but I think I’d fear for my digestion. Another possibility is for you to sit with the delegation from the Second-born…host them for me, perhaps?”  
  
The sensual mouth was set into a straight line, and the long-lashed eyes stared at him rebelliously. Hosting the delegates was to have been Círdan’s task, and was both an honour and a responsibility, but Elrond was having none of it. Gil-galad felt his temper rising. “Look, these are your choices. You can sit with Círdan, you can sit with Glorfindel, you can sit with the Men or you can sit with my aunt.”  
  
Glorfindel, who had heard the first part of the conversation before entering the room, and was following the one-sided exchange in silence, interrupted quietly, meeting Elrond’s eyes and speaking directly to him.  
  
“Would you consider sitting with me? It would help me if you did. You know I’m still not comfortable surrounded by strangers. And you can’t decline to attend,” he added firmly, forestalling the comment he could see being developed for his benefit. “Your brother deserves better than for you to insult him and treat a dinner in his honour as beneath you.”

~~~~

Convincing Elrond had gone surprisingly well, Glorfindel mused to himself later as he strolled through the carefully cultivated rose garden. Roses disliked the soil and setting of this part of Lindon but, coaxed by Elves who had a deep love for and understanding of the fragrant flowers, they had begun to thrive.  
  
Knowing perhaps better than Gil-galad the intensity of feeling involved in the matter of Elros’ departure and all things connected with it, he had used the simple approach of appealing to Elrond’s better nature which, despite rumour, really did exist. The Half-elf was well aware of Glorfindel’s difficulties with being on public display, his extreme discomfort at having to interact with strangers.   
  
Finally it was agreed that together they would host the guests from the delegation of the Second-born, which would be an uncomfortable business for the blonde, but he understood the art of compromise as practiced by Gil-galad, and accepted his part in it.  
  
After Elrond had left, Gil had congratulated him on a job well done, in between a very thorough attempt to kiss and make up which was not strictly necessary but still very nice indeed. So nice, in fact, that it had necessitated the closing of the door against the world. After that, the chance of discovery having been reduced, fingers that grew more fevered by the moment undid buttons and fastenings, and divested bodies of various items of clothing in a clutter upon the floor, making a trail that led inexorably to the deep window seat.  
  
Glorfindel had made a discovery. Gil had the power to simply make his mind stop working. He would be talking and following a line of thought and suddenly Gil’s mouth would be at his throat, Gil’s tongue would be caressing his ear, stroking slowly and sensuously from lobe to tip, and he would forget what he had been meaning to say, words halted, lost all meaning, and the only things that mattered were what that mouth was going to do next, and how soon it would take Gil’s large, sensitive and very talented hands to follow. In his clearer moments he wondered if this was the stuff of which addiction was made.  
  
This time was no different. Sweet kisses became something stronger, more demanding. The lips that had captured his own with such tenderness became hungry, insistent, as they roved down his neck. They eventually settled where the muscle at the joint of neck to shoulder could be nipped sharply before being sucked hard enough to leave a dark purple mark, by no means the only one to be found colouring his fair skin.   
  
Glorfindel’s rather nice tunic and the shirt of fine linen had been discarded somewhere near the door, and Gil knelt on the seat, his hands at the blonde’s waist, holding him steady. He eagerly kissed a trail that led very quickly from the base of the smooth throat to a hardening nipple, which he drew into his mouth eagerly, his tongue lapping it softly in an action closer to a kiss than the usual suckling motion. Glorfindel’s head fell back and he reached out a hand to Gil’s thick, dark hair, sinking his fingers into the softness, while his breathing grew shallow and his eyes slowly closed.  
  
The first rose tinted nipple was released, the other offered the same caress of tongue and lips, warm wetness sending fire stroking to the source of all pleasure. Glorfindel groaned and, almost without thought, moved one hand down to give some ease to the sudden hardness at his groin. Gil sucked sharply, creating a sensation somewhere on the border between pleasure and pain, and then released him for long enough to whisper, “Go on, touch yourself, let me watch you.”  
  
Glorfindel found he was being watched by intense blue eyes, within which a pale flame burned. He held Gil’s gaze, directing in downwards to focus on the movement of his hand while he eased himself back slowly till he was lying on the seat, one leg drawn up, the other flat but bent at the knee. Gil leaned over him, alternating between the taut nipples, sucking sharply, licking, teasing, while all the time watching, fascinated.   
  
Glorfindel unfastened his leggings with one hand, the other remaining tangled lightly in Gil’s hair, and carefully drew aside cloth to reveal that his sex was, even at this early stage in their lovemaking, darkened and erect. He took himself in hand and began to stroke while rubbing his thumb lightly over the slit, spreading the fluid he found there, and all the time continuing the steady motion, up and down .His eyes closed again and he began to moan softly and move his hips lightly in time to the rhythm he had set.  
  
Gil had stopped all pretense of participating at this stage and had gone to kneel on the floor next to the seat, his head against Glorfindel’s chest, watching, breathing in time with the soft moans. The fact that Glorfindel was turning into a wonderfully uninhibited lover, taking joy in their shared pleasure, was one of the many things about him that Gil-galad found irresistible. Eventually, however, he could remain a spectator no more.  
  
“Waited long enough,” he muttered, and picked up the little container of rosemary-scented oil, one of a selection which he kept to use in the small burner on the corner of his desk when he was having a long day and felt his mood needed lifting. He was a little surprised at having kept the presence of mind to retrieve it before crossing the room. Kneeling up, he unfastened his pants, his eyes never leaving Glorfindel’s hand, following the almost languid action of teasing thumb over engorged head and around the underside of the rim, while his hand remained wrapped around his erection, his grasp firm.  
  
Gil poured the oil into his hand, and then proceeded to apply it to his penis, his hand gripping a little tighter than needed, his breath hissing at each down stroke. When he was ready, he rose and moved to the end of the seat, and proceeded to tug Glorfindel’s leggings down, pausing to remove his boots at the last minute before dragging the clothing off to follow them onto the floor.  
  
“Don’t stop, don’t stop,” he murmured, running his hands firmly up the backs of Glorfindel’s thighs to the sensitive area behind the knees as he smoothly drew the blonde’s legs up and over his shoulders. Glorfindel cooperated, crossing his ankles lightly behind Gil’s neck and drawing his knees up towards his chest.   
  
Gil watched for a moment longer as Glorfindel continued to fondle himself, then he moved his hands down, clasping firm buttocks, lifting, spreading and then thrusting forward so that the head of his erection just barely penetrated the tight warmth that awaited it.   
  
He remained motionless, looking at the sight beneath him. The blonde was completely naked now, his hair a disheveled tangle over face and chest. His nipples were dark and still damp, his pale honey skin had the hint of a sheen of moisture to it, his cock was slick with pre cum. Glorfindel opened deep blue eyes and looked at him in an unfocused manner, then with a strange, tense smile asked huskily, “What are you waiting for?”   
  
Gil-galad needed no further encouragement; he thrust forward slowly, carefully, all the way to the hilt. Glorfindel jerked up to meet him, growling in need. “Concentrate on how this feels,” Gil grated, drawing back slowly then thrusting deep and hard. “Focus on how it feels to have me inside you.”   
  
Glorfindel cried out inarticulately and blindly clasped Gil’s arm with his free hand, tightening his fingers hard enough to leave bruises, and began to move to the pace he was set, giving himself over completely to desire.  
  
Completion was swift for them both. Glorfindel was highly sensitive and responsive, and it took no more than two dozen hard but well aimed thrusts to drive him over the edge, crying out and arching his back violently, his face contorting and his head tossing from side to side. The combination of the contractions around his sex and the sight of Glorfindel lost to erotic passion was enough; Gil-galad found release almost immediately afterwards.

~~~~

Glorfindel made his way through the hallways of the public section of the Palace, fresh from a brief meeting with Erestor, the junior military advisor with the interesting past and the dryly ironic sense of humour. They had discussed the level of expertise Glorfindel was looking for in his potential students, and had considered several possible venues for the classes. As a rule, no one waylaid this legend made flesh at those times when he walked with purpose, a look of thoughtful distraction on his face. This time proved to be different.  
  
“Glorfindel. Cousin. How is it that you are alive?"   
  
The blunt question should have been unacceptable, even though the voice that uttered it was sweet and low, with just the slightest hint of amusement. Because everyone else went to great lengths to avoid the subject, however, Glorfindel found the directness refreshing if startling. Turning, he found himself looking into eyes the blue-green colour of a sunlit sea, set in a grave, high-cheekboned face. The first thing anyone noticed, however, was the hair, which was golden as his own, and threaded with strands of pure silver. Despite an attempt to look offended, he found he was smiling broadly.  
  
“Nerwen, only you would phrase it quite like that," he told her with a chuckle, reaching out to hug Finarfin's daughter, the flame of bright defiance and courage who, overshadowing her brothers, had been amongst the leaders of the rebellion, arguing with Fëanor, rejecting without reservation the warning to return home, crossing the Ice with a grim, determined air that was the best lesson in leading by example that he had ever seen.  
  
Glorfindel, distant kin to this spirit of adamant, had admired her since childhood. She was one of the few people with whom he had always been at ease, and discovering that this had not changed was almost like a homecoming to him. However, he swiftly realised that things were not quite as they had been before. Galadriel was tall and had always been as strong and as slender as a young birch tree, but he became aware that something had changed.   
  
He released her and stepped back to look at her properly for the first time. The once reed slim form was now delightfully swollen in what, to his inexperienced eye, seemed to be the mid stages of child bearing. There had been whispers, of course, and veiled comments, but nothing had been said to him directly, and the matter had apparently escaped Gil-galad’s memory. Glorfindel paused, even less certain than usual of the right thing to say. A low chuckle rescued him.  
  
"Yes, I'm pregnant. Yes, of course it's his - we're formally bonded, after all - so, yes, it will be half Sindarin."   
  
Glorfindel coloured slightly at her knowing reference to the manner in which her life was discussed, the stories of how Finarfin’s daughter had, while in Menegroth, met and eventually bonded with a Sinda, kin to Elu Thingol, true, but nonetheless, not one of their own, and was moving from place to place in his wake, as rootless as any elleth of the Wandering Companies.   
  
Nothing was said too loudly. She was the High King’s aunt after all, and Glorfindel had pretended to either not hear or else not understand the careful jokes, though he could have explained that it was more than likely to be Nerwen’s restless spirit that carried them forward, in her search for somewhere to call her own.  
  
“People gossip,” he said finally, stating a self evident truth. He smiled at her, taking in the pale green robe, the darker over-tunic, the edge embroidered with yellow flowers, the sparkle in her eyes, the slight roundness to her cheeks. “You look well enough, though, so let them get on with it.”  
  
She burst out laughing. “Cousin, you’ve changed. And for the better. Yes indeed, let them. And let us walk and talk and compare our lives. You, I think, have a tale to tell. And Nerwen was my name amongst my kin,” she added. “Most now call me Galadriel.”

~~~~

Their walk took them outside to the corner of the garden Glorfindel had favoured since he had arrived in Lindon, the same spot where he had first met Gil-galad. They settled on the bench near the little fountain and spent a pleasant hour catching up on the events in one another’s lives, although Galadriel did the majority of the talking as she had somewhat more news to share.  
  
She explained that she and her mate – Celeborn, formerly of Doriath – were in Lindon for a short time only, to await the birth of their child and to make decisions about the course of their future. They were not resident in the Palace, choosing, instead, to have their own small establishment close enough to the shoreline for them to be lulled to sleep each night by the sounds of the waves. She was vague about their possible plans, saying only that she would be remaining in Middle-earth.  
  
The discussion about Glorfindel's ‘misadventure’, as she chose to call it, was more animated.   
  
“What do you mean, it caught your hair? What were you doing fighting a Balrog with your hair flying loose like something out of a saga?” she asked, bemused, reaching up a hand to touch the offending hair lightly.   
  
“It was a festival,” he explained with a helpless laugh, feeling his cheeks flushing. “I had no idea that I would be fighting for my life, for the lives of others. Once it began there was barely time to seek armour and weapons, and many of us had no time even for that. I was fortunate to be near home. I never gave my hair a thought…”  
  
She gave him a sideways glance, then put her hand on his shoulder in apology. “Things happen for their own good reason,” she said in a more gentle tone. “You fought as you did, perhaps even died as you did, to preserve the life of Eärendil, and he in his turn brought help out of the West to light the darkness for us…”   
  
Her voice trailed off and she raised an eyebrow as Glorfindel sighed and nodded, then tilted his head back to look up into a tree where a nest containing three fledglings could be seen.  
  
“I died to save a child who in his turn fathered children,“ he agreed. “One of those children said something very like this to me not so long ago. And who knows, perhaps you’re both right. Perhaps that was why I had to die. It doesn’t help with the question of why the Valar sent me back though. “  
  
They sat listening to the birds and the soft, far-off sounds of voices. Galadriel was at ease with silence. She sat with half closed eyes, her hands linked lightly across the curve of her belly, her concentration apparently elsewhere. She was probably listening to the trees talk, Glorfindel though, more than half seriously. She had spent time with Yavanna in her youth and since then had given long years to learning as much as Melian had been prepared to teach. As he watched, she took a deep breath, smiling slightly to herself, then slanted him a look under unexpectedly dark lashes.  
  
“They measure time differently to us, my dear,” she told him. “The reason may come to pass this week, next year, an age from now. There is no way to know. But your path will be guided, things will be put in your way to prompt you, never fear. They would hardly go to so much trouble simply to leave you to your own devices.”  
  
Trying to ignore the cynical tone, alarmingly similar to Elrond’s, he confided in her the fear that came and whispered to him in the dark, or shadowed him on those quiet days when he felt lost and purposeless. Almost anytime, in fact, when he wasn’t in Gil’s company.  
  
“What if my purpose is to die?” he asked her. “What if they just sent me back to die again? Sometimes I feel almost set apart, almost as though my time here will be too short to make it worth anyone’s while to get close to me.”   
  
Galadriel was quiet for so long he thought she had decided not to answer but when she finally spoke he heard the weight of consideration in her voice, and something else, a thread of knowing that for some reason traced ice down his spine.   
  
“I believe you were sent back to live,” she said quietly. “Why else would they go to such trouble? Not now, but in a time to come, your past experiences will stand you in good stead when you are called on to protect the future. For the present, do what seems best and most fulfilling, your destiny will come to find you in its own time. If you simply must seek answers, look for symmetry,” she added. “The Shining Ones enjoy it. You died for Eärendil, perhaps you live for his son? I have heard more than enough about Elwing’s younger son to think he may be in sore need of your protection over time. Or perhaps there is something else, someone else, who can tell? Their ways are – intricate.”  
  
He returned her look with one he hoped was at least as steady. “Was that why you decided to remain? Your lack of ease with the Valar?”  
  
Galadriel snorted in a most unladylike manner, putting Glorfindel in mind of her uncle Fingolfin, to whom she had been as close as a daughter. “Decide? My dear, there was no deciding to be done. I was told that my actions had been unacceptable and that my time of testing and cleansing lay still long in the future. Not till I pass this unknown test will I be allowed to leave here. I am an exile in the true sense.”   
  
At his exclamation of sympathy she shook her head briskly. “Their Herald, one of the more unpleasant of his kind that I have ever seen, told me this and seemed quite put out when I laughed. I have no need of their forgiveness, nor do I need to be summoned home like a house pet that has played outdoors for longer than expected and is now to be returned to its cage. “  
  
“Galadriel,” he breathed in horror. Somehow she made him far more nervous than Elrond had. Elrond had never seen the Western Shore, nor those who walked upon it. Nerwen – the new name would take time – certainly had. She swung round to face him, her eyes suddenly blazing.  
  
“They will not allow me back because I will not be caged, and they fear that in me and the effect it might have on others. They have seen rebellion once, after all,” she hissed. “It is enough that I am bound by the conventions and short sighted rules that make up the Code of the Noldor, but at least I will survive that without the indignity of a cage. I am content to remain here for eternity if needs be.”  
  
It was only over dinner that Glorfindel finally pieced together the meaning behind that uncharacteristic outburst. Noldorin conventions and law gave females limited rights of inheritance, especially where the royal succession was concerned. Were that not so, Galadriel, daughter of Finarfin, not Gil-galad, son of Orodreth, would have sat in Lindon as High Queen of the Noldor in Middle-earth.


	12. Chapter 12

“I talked to Círdan.”   
  
Elros entered the darkening room and kicked the door shut, an act signifying either frustration or tiredness. He dropped a couple of half-rolled maps onto a chair as he passed it, heading towards the table on which a wine jug and a pair of goblets normally stood, to find the jug had been replaced by a slender miruvor jar instead. He nodded without questioning the substitution and poured an amount of the clear liquid into one of the small cups laid out beside it.   
  
After taking two or three sips he turned his attention to his brother, who was sitting near the window, Laslech on the floor at his feet. Elros gave the dog a concerned look. Amongst all the other final choices he was attempting to deal with, he would have to make time to decide her future, too.   
  
“I told him it might make everyone’s life a lot easier if he left things like your manners and your interesting dress sense for Gil-galad to deal with. After all, he is ultimately responsible for you. You might want to watch your tongue though, it makes it harder for Gil to sympathise if he has to keep excusing you….”   
  
“He insulted Maglor,” Elrond interrupted evenly. “He said we were badly raised. I don’t have to accept that. Even Ereinion said he went too far.”  
  
Elros was quiet. He would have thought twice about defending Maglor, but Elrond’s loyalty was a knife-edged flame that put his own ambivalence to shame. Maglor had stood between them and death on a number of occasions, and Elrond certainly would not be the one to forget it. He tiredly wondered what else Círdan had not seen fit to mention, then turned to his primary concern. “Elrond, about Glorfindel…?” he asked, not even sure how to word the query.  
  
Elrond finally turned to look at him, and favoured him with a slightly satisfied smile. “Oh, that. That wasn’t me, that was all Ereinion’s fault.”  
  
Elros gave him the expected look of doubt verging on disbelief. “I was told you encouraged Glorfindel into doing something – what was the word? – ill-conceived. Or is that two words?”  
  
“Hyphenated,” Elrond responded. “And I didn’t do anything of the sort. Cirdan and I were having a…discussion about whether he had the right to tell Glori what to do. I made the point that I was Turgon’s heir, well, one of them anyway, so Ereinion was inspired to add his five words, which were that, as High King, he would decide Glori’s future.”   
  
Elrond paused for effect, his eyes sparkling with mischief, then went on. “It’s outside my experience, but I’d think it a bad idea to remind your new lover he has to answer to you outside of the bedroom as well. Glori didn’t take too well to it. He interrupted us, which he never does, told Ereinion he was actually free to swear allegiance where he chose, and then chose me. I think,” he added, studying his fingernails judiciously, “I think Ereinion made him very angry.”   
  
Elros dropped down into the opposite chair, and sipped his drink. “I always manage to miss all the excitement,” he remarked, before raising a questioning brow as he finally took in his brother’s appearance.   
  
Elrond was wearing scarlet, so dark it was almost black, in the form of leggings and a softly draping overtunic, under which he wore a white shirt made of some filmy fabric. His waist length hair was caught back from his face with a pair of ruby-studded mithril clasps, and it tumbled and flowed, fine, sparkling and unconfined, over his shoulders and down his back.  
  
“I didn’t know you had been invited this evening,” Elros observed, frowning slightly. “I wonder if that’s quite the right hairstyle, though? I know it’s meant to be informal, but...”  
  
“Invited?” Elrond gave him an expressionless look that was highly expressive. “For some reason Ereinion never invites me anywhere if he has the choice.”  
  
“Can’t imagine why not,” Elros responded blandly, sounding more than a little like their royal cousin.   
  
Elrond shot a glance at his brother out of the corner of his eye. Elros looked tired, however, and whatever retort had been on his tongue died unuttered. Instead, he asked, “Invited where, by the way?”  
  
“Gil invited my new councillors to spend an hour or two with us, just getting acquainted. We’re just going to drink a little wine, exchange a few pleasantries…”  
  
Elrond nodded. “No, I wouldn’t expect to be on the guest list for something like that, luckily. It sounds dreadful. Shouldn’t you be getting ready, then? I assume it’s pre-dinner?”   
  
Elros nodded, taking another sip of the potent contents of the cup. “Just want to finish this, clear my head of the remnants of the day, then I’ll change and leave.” He gazed out at the darkening garden, thought for a moment, then turned his attention back to his brother.   
  
“Was there some reason you wanted me to hurry?” he asked mildly. The black haired Elf, whom he vaguely remembered from the time before Lindon, had not yet arrived in the garden, but would almost certainly appear within the next few minutes. Elrond looked suitably blank, confirming his suspicions. Confusion would have been more convincing, though he decided not to mention this.   
  
He got up, rubbing the back of his head with his free hand, trying to loosen the tightly knotted braids a little, and favoured his twin with a light kick as he passed. “Made peace with him, did you?” he asked, placing the empty cup on the table.   
  
“Have no idea what you mean,” Elrond retorted, though a grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.  
  
“Medium height, black hair, memorable backside…?”  
  
“Actually, I hadn’t really noticed the backside,” Elrond interrupted. “I just enjoy talking to him, not ogling his body. I’ll remember to look.”  
  
“You do that,” Elros agreed, turning quickly and leaving the room before Elrond noticed the sudden rush of moisture to his eyes. He would never see the outcome of this relationship, if there was one. There would be letters, of course, but not his twin’s unpredictable response to questions like these, nor the opportunity to estimate his mood and intentions by his choice in clothing, the way he wore his hair…..  
  
He went into his room, shut the door, and leaned back against it with his eyes closed against the tears. Not for the first time, he stood alone and cursed the masters of their fate softly and fluently, using words he had learned from the hardened Elves who had followed Maedhros in his other life, in the time before the pavilion on the beach.

~~~~

The small reception hall close to the main entrance of the Palace was a plain, drafty room with long windows which looked out onto a grass covered courtyard. It was simply furnished, having little to recommend it other than a large fireplace and, owing to its central position, was normally used for quick, informal gatherings.  
  
On this occasion, however, it had been transformed. Heavy drapes were drawn against the chill wind which had resumed howling after a day’s pause, and brightly coloured rugs, imported from the East coast, were strewn across the floor. Informal seating, arranged to best encourage light conversation, had been placed within reach of the fire’s warmth. Earlier, unobtrusive servants had passed back and forth with wine and selections of pastries and small, candied delicacies. The room was empty now, save for a large, dark haired Elf who was leaning back in a chair, wine cup in hand, gazing into the fire.  
  
The assembled company had been an unlikely combination of Elves, Men, and a single Half-elf, everyone attempting to look and sound at their ease, most of them failing quite dismally. They had sat talking and smiling and longing for the dinner hour and freedom.  
  
The Men were those who had been selected, after much debate amongst the Second-born, to be the councillors who would accompany and advise the new King of Númenor. The Elves were represented by Círdan, Gil-galad, three of his senior advisors – and Glorfindel, whom Gil-galad had insisted attend. The golden warrior, he declared expansively over lunch, needed to expose himself to as many new experiences and people as were made available to him by his presence in Lindon. He should regard it as an aid towards deciding his future.   
  
At Glorfindel’s look of pure horror he had grinned cheerfully, saying, “You need to have more faith in yourself than that. I’ll be there, you’ll be fine. Just sip some wine, look devastatingly attractive, and smile.”  
  
The Half-elven representative and ostensive reason for this gathering, Elros, son of Eärendil, had moved with trained ease from one guest to another, sitting sometimes to talk a while, the friendly, personable smile on his face belying the tension that could be discerned in his eyes. The Elves and Men were strangers to one another, the High King was present, the Men, in some instances, had barely met, and he was expected to be the mortar to bind them all together.  
  
All told it had been an interminable few hours for all concerned.  
  
The guests, both Elves and Men, had long since departed for dinner and their quarters, seeking rest in preparation for what was likely to be a late night on the morrow. Gil-galad, however, after a light dinner, had found himself restless and unable to settle, and decided to go for a walk. On his way to the main entrance he paused at the door to the reception room where he had earlier helped Elros entertain his guests. He found it was currently in the process of being returned to order, all traces of previous social activity, in the form of cups and plates, were being removed, along with the extra chairs.  
  
A sudden desire for solitude struck him, something not afforded by his private apartments where he was always ‘at home’ and available to his councillors, Glorfindel and several relatives as a matter of course. On a whim he instructed that the fire be built up and that one of the wine flagons be left. He was surprised to discover that it was still full. After the servants had finished their work and departed, he settled in a chair close to the fire, where he sat watching the flames as he sipped his wine and listened to the rising wind and let his thoughts roam free.

~~~~

Fire put him in mind of Glorfindel, who had gone off into the cold to check on his horse. Gil had seen him sit and gaze into the heart of a blaze in similar manner – like yet unlike, as there seemed to be an air of quiet determination about him at such times. He was learning not to be afraid of fire, Elrond had told him, displaying barely concealed amazement that the question had even needed to be asked.   
  
The reasons that drew him to Glorfindel with a strength lacking in previous attachments were complex. There was, obviously, that blonde beauty and warm nature, but, less apparently, there was the echo of familiarity, a sense that here was another child of privilege who knew how it felt to lack self belief. The contrast between them lay in their responses, in the opposing faces they showed to the world, yet it was the shy, tentative Glorfindel who had responded to affection with warmth and openness, enticing Gil-galad to join him, return caring with tenderness.  
  
Kingship had found him far too young, he mused, draining the cup and reaching down to refill it. He had barely reached his majority when Gondolin fell. The crown had meant and continued to mean fighting, and before he was anything else Gil-galad, Orodreth’s son, was a warrior, bred for it, trained to it from earliest youth. On the day when word came that the Hidden City had, indeed, been found and had fallen and he was the last hope of his family, he had understood that he no longer fought for the warriors under him, or the haven where he lived, but for everyone.   
  
The pressure of being responsible for holding all this together - the remnant of the Exiles, the refugees from doomed settlements, everyone who looked to him for leadership, for strength, was at times all but overwhelming. However, he soon discovered that opportunities to ease his tensions, warm his bed, which had been few and far between under Círdan’s strict rules and control, abounded for a young and highly attractive monarch who appeared friendly, outgoing, and immensely likable.   
  
If he looked deep enough into the fire he could almost see them, faces, bodies, entering and leaving his life, almost interchangeable. He indulged himself discreetly when time and circumstance allowed. There was no sense of commitment; his lovers amused his leisure, kept him calm and focused, yet they had no hold on his soul. They were, quite literally, out of sight, out of mind.  
  
He drank absently, his thoughts making tenuous links, sliding from topic to topic, always returning to Glorfindel, he of the golden hair and clear blue eyes, young-seeming and somehow innocent despite his years. Glorfindel of the lean, muscular body, the sweet mouth. Glorfindel, the hero who had fought at the Nirnaeth Arnoediad when he, Gil, had still been a child. Fighting in a battle where another King had fallen, another been made.  
  
The shifting of a log in the fireplace brought Gil-galad back to the moment and he leaned forward, resisting a wave of giddiness, and used the poker to rearrange the wood more productively. He noticed the goblet was almost empty again and wondered for a moment if he had had enough, then, shrugging, took the opportunity to fill it before resuming his contemplation of the dancing flames.  
  
He never allowed anyone too close, of course. No one saw the royal orphan, left to walk as best he could in the footprints of the larger than life heroes who had worn the crown before him, and trying to hide his feelings of inferiority and inadequacy behind a veneer of straightforward common sense and bland good humour. He wanted, more than anything, to be a good King, the King that, after all this blood and pain, people deserved, but he had scant faith in his ability.  
  
He hid, knowing his responsibilities, knowing the terrible mistakes that had been committed before, knowing it was up to him to see they were never repeated. Determined that no one would discover how horribly afraid he was that he would fail, as Turgon, Fingon and Fingolfin all in their turn had failed. He repeated their names aloud and, because he was alone, raised his cup to them, toasting them in red wine and firelight, those great ones whom he had been asked to excel.   
  
His thoughts wandered back obliquely to shining blonde hair, hanging like a cloak about him as a warm mouth kissed a path down his chest, and a low though light voice murmured to him, telling him what no other had before, that he was beautiful, his body perfect, but he drew back from this image and instead tried to imagine surrendering emotionally to the owner of that voice, that mouth.   
  
He wondered how it would feel, sharing the secrets of his heart, admitting to his loneliness as a child, his conviction that he would never make half the King his predecessors had, despite their uniform untimely ending. Even more, could he reach down more deeply still, confide his resistance to the idea of a match that would produce the much needed heir? A reluctance that went to the very core of who he was – not the King, not the warrior, not the advisor or decision maker, himself, Ereinion.   
  
He refilled the cup with an unsteady hand, noting with surprise that the flagon was almost empty and that he was probably drunk. Well, it was a rare enough event, he decided. He settled back in the chair, returned his by now less than focused gaze to the fire, and attempted to pursue his line of thought further.   
  
Being alone was a situation of long familiarity. The desire for a confidante was completely at odds with an upbringing that had refused him the right to weakness, to error. Furthermore he had an uneasy certainty that to say the word would make it so, that to admit to his lack would make it real and binding, not just on him but upon all those to whom he was responsible. Therefore, in the ways that mattered, he had long since chosen to walk alone.   
  
He wondered how being alone would affect Elrond when Elros left for Númenor, a choice made for reasons known only to his cousins and the Valar. But then Elrond, unlike him, would have Glorfindel – what did he call him? Glori? Hazily, he considered Glorfindel, who needed closeness as plants needed water and sunlight. If he could not permit himself to supply the required closeness, would Glorfindel not seek it where he could? Unbidden, Elrond’s face, full-lipped, grey-eyed, erotically enticing, swam before his eyes.  
  
To that there was no answer, simply another question. Yes, the sex was incredible, but could he accept this golden gift waiting to be cherished and savoured, whose fire could, if allowed, warm him and light the hidden places of his heart? Dare he allow the proffered love to soothe the hurt of loss, hold the frightened child within close, stand, brave and glowing, a shield against the dark, be his courage, fight monsters for him – allow him to be weak? Draining his cup, he wondered if it were possible for a King’s life to be more than duty and sacrifice. Círdan, he decided, nodding his head conclusively, would certainly never agree with that.

~~~~

Elrond waited at least ten minutes before leaving his rooms, moving with what he hoped was easy nonchalance. Laslech followed him out, looking with deep suspicion at the darkening garden. The wind had risen again, and she found the sounds of rattling shutters and thrashing branches disquieting. She was accustomed to Erestor’s presence and the morning’s misadventure had taught her to let him alone until he was finished. She went, instead, to lie under the tree where Elrond often sat to read.  
  
Faced with the problem of controlling unbound hair in the worsening weather, Elrond chose the shelter of a small thicket of lavender, regretting the vanity that had made him leave his hair loose on this wind tossed night. He resisted the temptation to hold onto it, trying to preserve some dignity and sophistication, but he doubted that wild and unruly looked particularly desirable either.   
  
Erestor’s preparation for his nightly routine had been less thorough than usual – no centering and balancing, merely a clearing of the mind, a few deep breaths and a vague dedication of his time to Lord Oromë before beginning the slow, familiar poses. From the corner of an eye he had seen the door open, followed by movement on the edge of his vision which drew his attention to a sight that all but made him lose track of the well-rehearsed sequence.  
  
Elrond was wearing something dark and enticingly loose, and his hair, web-fine, night-dark, was being lifted and tossed around him by the wind like tendrils of smoke. Erestor pivoted on one heel to watch him make his way to one of the more sheltered corners and sink down gracefully, half obscured by waving foliage.   
  
“Good evening, Elrond,” he ventured once he was fairly certain his voice would work. “Your day went well, I hope?” Abandoning the normal flow of the exercise, he found and held a pose that permitted him to face the fey-looking creature seated amidst the lavender, resembling more a forest Elf than the scion of Kings.  
  
Elrond gave him a half smile, his eyes glinting in the gathering dusk. “Well enough, I suppose. I met my brother’s new councillors when they arrived. That was quite interesting.” At Erestor’s raised brow, offered while he moved smoothly up and round in a graceful swirl of black hair before lunging at an unseen centre, he continued, “I had never met Men in a group before. I thought they would be different to us but they weren’t really.” He paused and thought a moment. “They talk less than we do, perhaps.”  
  
Erestor, who had spent time in more mortal settlements than he could remember during his years of gathering information for his company, to be passed to either the King or Maedhros, sometimes both, smiled slightly. He had never thought of Men as being more restrained than Elves before.   
  
“There’s a dinner tomorrow, isn’t there?” He glanced over as he asked this, to be confronted by a glimpse of long, pale throat as the Half-elf tossed his hair back out of his face. There was a flash of jeweled clasps half hidden amidst the dark mass and they glinted and sparkled in the remaining light. Erestor tried not to stare.   
  
“Dinner, yes,” Elrond said after a momentary hesitation. “It’s going to be long and boring, but Ereinion’s set on giving Elros a good farewell. Glorfindel and I will be sitting with the Men, apparently.”  
  
Erestor made some vague sound of acknowledgement as he bypassed approximately a third of his usual routine in an effort, for probably the first time since he had learnt it, to get it finished and out of the way. He noted, coming up from a backward bend that had his hair brushing the ground, that Elrond had straightened up and was watching him with the same intensity he had been trying to conceal in his own covert glances. Their eyes met for a moment, and the connection that had been there in the morning returned, with increased intensity.   
  
Ignoring the protest of his back and upper thighs, Erestor repeated the motion, increasing the arch so that his head all but touched the ground. Straightening, he held the final posture for a good five heartbeats less than required before pressing his hands together at chest height, palms inward and sinking slowly to the ground in an attitude of kneeling rest.  
  
Elrond, sitting with his arms wrapped loosely round his drawn up knees, surveyed him with amused curiosity. “Where’s the rest of it?” he asked, the wind catching at his musical voice, making him sound further off than he was, for Erestor had deliberately come to rest close to the lavender thicket.  
  
Erestor bit back delighted laughter. So, despite appearing to ignore him, the Princeling had been watching well enough to have learned his routine. “It’s been a long day,” he offered, still kneeling as he reached up to release his hair from the knot that held it back from his face. He smiled into the grey eyes. “And the company offered is more to my taste than a routine that I’ve repeated twice daily for most of my adult life.”  
  
“You were born into one of the Companies then?” Elrond asked him, curious. “I remember seeing you, of course. Elros mentioned he had an idea you answered to Gildor.”  
  
“Not born, no,” Erestor answered, his fingers busy braiding hair. “I came from Nargothrond originally. After it fell I joined one of the Companies. I had training as a scout and they thought I could be useful. My family died in the assault, I had nowhere else to go…”  
  
Elrond, who had lived his entire life thus far surrounded by similar stories of destruction and relocation, nodded. He took a deep breath, trying to settle the flutter of nervous excitement in his stomach, and moved closer to Erestor, saying in a slightly breathless voice, “Can I help you with your hair? I should have knotted mine – the wind grows wilder by the minute.” He didn’t wait for a response, reaching out instead to carefully separate an ebony tress into three strands which he began braiding.  
  
Erestor’s mind swung free into some empty space that swallowed words, thoughts, common sense. He clutched frantically at the last comment he could respond to, reminding himself yet again that this was the King’s cousin, that he had already decided this was no safe road to travel. “I spoke to your brother three, maybe four times in those days,” he said, pleased to hear his voice sounded smooth and relaxed. “The King was always keen for news. I wasn’t allowed contact with you, for some reason. And all the Companies answer to Gildor Inglorion in the end, one way or another.”  
  
Elrond looked up from his almost completed task, and smiled wickedly. “Maedhros never trusted me to be discreet. He kept outsiders well away from me. I can’t imagine why.”  
  
They were so close that, despite the wind, Erestor felt the warmth of sweet breath against his cheek when the Half-elf spoke, and caught, again, the faint scent of violets. His senses seemed heightened; he was very aware of the sound of the wind, the creaking of branches, a shutter thudding regularly somewhere in the distance. It was almost full dark now, the only light coming from the open door of the apartment. He could feel the grass beneath him, the way his body tingled from exercise and undeniable rising desire. Their eyes met, held, then Elrond dropped his gaze lower, to Erestor’s lips. Neither of them moved for a moment, then the Half-elf leaned forward and his lips brushed Erestor’s, withdrew, then returned. With no more thought than he would have given to drawing a breath, Erestor reached out a hand, cupped a smooth cheek and chin, and claimed the offered mouth.   
  
It was only after his tongue had parted those soft, full lips that Erestor realised what he was doing, by which stage the idea of stopping was almost a foreign concept. He reached an arm around Elrond’s firm, slender body, drawing him closer as he deepened the kiss, his tongue sliding against smooth pressure before twining, exploring, tasting, in a kiss that began in uncertainty and ended in perfection. Elrond’s arms went round him slowly, and their bodies closed the small distance between them and blended seamlessly.   
  
Erestor ran his fingers through hair that felt as soft and fine as it looked and, as Elrond’s grip on his shoulder and back tightened, he probed deeper with his tongue whilst using his weight to move them slowly back and down, with some vague intention of lying on the grass.   
  
What might have followed remained in the realm of fantasy as Laslech, forgotten by both, suddenly started up, ears pricked and, with a welcoming bark, charged past them, heading for the open door. Elrond, startled, broke the kiss, drawing back, his eyes wide, his breathing quick. “Elros,” he said by way of explanation, struggling to his feet, pushing hair out of his face and looking painfully young and unsure of himself. “I must go. I’m sorry, I…”   
  
Erestor rose too, reaching a hand for the Half-elf’s arm, but let it drop as he realised the retreat had less to do with the likelihood of them being found together than with Elrond’s own confusion about what had just happened. Common sense came back and kicked, hard, and Erestor straightened up and nodded. “Yes, of course,” he heard himself saying. “It grows late anyway. Tomorrow, perhaps?”  
  
Elrond, already halfway to the door, looked back over his shoulder and nodded. “Tomorrow,” he agreed. “Morning. I won’t be here tomorrow night.” Retreating inside he closed the door, leaving Erestor alone with the night, the wind and his thoughts.


	13. Chapter 13

After the interminable socializing had finally come to an end, and after a light dinner with Gil-galad, Glorfindel had gone to the stables to check on his horse. He knew the grooms were amused by his concern at what was no more than a light strain, but he had always loved horses and already had a strong rapport with Carod. The walk also gave him the opportunity to mull over the day’s events.   
  
The reception had proven surprisingly straightforward. Following Gil’s suggestions to the letter, he had settled in a chair as far from the main focus of attention – Elros and Gil-galad – as he could find, sipped his wine and kept his smiling responses to all overtures short. Elros came over and spent a few minutes with him and on several occasions Gil caught his eye, winked and raised his wine goblet in salute, but otherwise he was left more or less to himself, present yet uninvolved. Which more or less described his second life up till then, he thought wryly.  
  
He was returning to one of the few certainties in this new life, the warmth of Gil-galad’s welcome, when he saw movement, a more solid darkness within the shadows next to one of the small trees that grew in bright containers along the terrace .The area of deeper shadow turned out to be Erestor, rendered unobtrusive by virtue of black hair and dark clothing, who was leaning lightly against the colourfully painted pot and staring off into the distance, apparently lost in thought.  
  
Glorfindel paused. He could walk on, pretending not to notice, or he could do something which he found painfully difficult - stop and indulge in small talk for a few minutes. The choice was taken from him when Erestor turned his head slightly and smiled in greeting. Glorfindel forced down the habitual nervous flutter and went over to join him.  
  
“Enjoying the night?” he asked, cringing at the banality of the question. He went to stand on the opposite side of the tree, keeping it between them almost by way of a boundary.   
  
Erestor’s mouth twitched slightly, possibly not with mirth. “It seemed the right time to be considering my future,” he replied cryptically in his quietly mellow voice.   
  
Glorfindel shot him am inquiring glance, but was not invited to pursue the subject. Making a noncommittal sound, he leaned against his side of the container and shared the view of the shadowed garden and the deeper darkness beyond that was the sea. They stood thus for a time, separated by the small tree, experiencing an unexpectedly comfortable silence.  
  
“Was it a successful evening?” Erestor asked, breaking the stillness after a while. “We were discussing the guest list over dinner. Quite an interesting combination.”   
  
“I don’t think anyone besides the King was what you might call comfortable,” Glorfindel admitted with a quick smile. “But everything seemed to go as planned. It’s strange though, the Men seemed barely to know one another.” His voice reflected his dubiousness at the idea, but Erestor caught the implied question and shook his head.  
  
“They seldom mingle. They form little groups and band together against the world. Though considering the violent times we’ve just lived through it’s no wonder they avoid strangers,” he added, then paused, his face thoughtful as he considered something. “As far as that goes, outside of the Wandering Companies you seldom find much mingling between Elves, either.”  
  
Glorfindel thought about that. “I knew quite a few Sindar,” he said in an almost tentative voice, then, before Erestor could comment, he added, “Of course, Gondolin was very different to Lindon.”   
  
For a moment his vulnerability was discernable even by torchlight, and Erestor felt a strong empathy with him. Gondolin, like Nargothrond, was no more. For Glorfindel, too, the past was a closed book, gone, leaving no remnant to which he could cling. His quick mind pursued that thread a moment longer, wondering what, if anything, remained of the Hidden City, and whom he could ask.  
  
“You’ve had dealings with the Second-born, then?” Glorfindel asked before the conversation could drift off into silence. He had learned to do this from watching Gil-galad, and was quietly pleased that he was becoming quite proficient. Erestor smiled and nodded, glad to return to less emotive ground.  
  
“I spent some time in their settlements, studying military movements and such,” he explained. “I posed as a trader, usually. That way, I could spend as much time as I needed. They seemed pleasant enough, I suppose. A little preoccupied with their own affairs, but…“  
  
Glorfindel smiled, amused. “That might have been their impression of Elves, too, before you arrived and showed them our true colours – insatiably curious about everything.”   
  
Erestor gave him a startled look. Unexpectedly, the warrior had a sense of humour to go with the extreme good looks and legendary past. He supposed that anyone spending as much time with Gil-galad as Glorfindel was rumoured to would probably need one. The King was as well known for his irreverent wit as for his administrative capabilities or his battle skills. He acknowledged the observation with a flash of dark eyes and a nod.   
  
“Tomorrow I have to give the visitors a tour of the armoury and training grounds,” he confided, though he thought it likely that Glorfindel already knew this. “It surprised me a little. I would have thought their new king would have liked to see to that himself.”  
  
“I doubt that Elros has spent much time training in arms lately,” Glorfindel offered. “It would be more important for him to learn history and lore and the like. He travels to a land without enemies, after all.”  
  
“I hear he has the beginnings of a loremaster’s skill?” Erestor had heard Elrond’s brother was as different to him as chalk to cheese, and his first-hand observations certainly seemed to confirm this.   
  
Glorfindel nodded. “The King’s seen to it that he’s been well-trained in the skills needed for rulership. Not much time to be young, though. Definitely not much time to build on the training he had from Maedhros.”  
  
Erestor widened his expressive dark eyes, his equivalent of raising an eyebrow. “Maedhros trained them to fight?” he asked. Nothing he had seen on his visits to that camp had given any indication of this, although those visits had, of necessity, been brief.  
  
“Enough to protect themselves at need, yes. I’ve tested Elrond – he’s better than good with a knife.”  
  
Erestor pursed his lips slightly, indicating surprise, and they lapsed once more into an easy silence, until Glorfindel straightened up, saying, “I’m for bed, I think. It’s almost time for the watch to change.”  
  
Erestor nodded, though he was reluctant to go to bed where, he suspected, he would be forced to deal with visions of smoky hair and eyes, memories of a responsive mouth and a lithe body. He had a lot to think about; a decision to pursue the Princeling would have the potential to shape his entire future. Erestor’s usual preference was to greet problems head-on, but the longer he could avoid dealing with this one the better he liked it.   
  
“Perhaps we could talk another time?” he suggested on an impulse. “Share a little wine perhaps?” He was horrified to hear his words come out sounding for all the world like the prelude to a proposition. He saw the thought cross Glorfindel’s mind – he had an open face and gave the appearance of being easy to read, though Erestor had an idea this was not always so. “Oh no, I’m sorry, I never meant it to sound like…”  
  
Glorfindel had no idea if an overture had been intended or not, but doubted it. Though a novice to the art of building friendships, he also knew better than to spoil the interlude by allowing it to end on a note of suspicion or discomfort. “Of course not. I’d like to continue this over some wine …another time, of course, when the King isn’t waiting for me.”  
  
Erestor nodded slowly, his expression deadpan. “If you agree to forget how badly I expressed myself, I could pretend you never told me the King was waiting for you at this hour of the night.”  
  
Glorfindel felt heat rush to his face and was grateful for the dark, then he glanced across at Erestor and their eyes met. They surveyed each other in all seriousness for a moment and then the laughter came, open and easy between them.  
  
Erestor straightened up, pushed his shining black hair back from his face and grinned, a flash of perfect white teeth.  
  
“Maybe lunch instead.”

~~~~

Over dinner Elrond had dutifully listened and made sympathetic noises as Elros described his councillors, the awkwardness of the evening and the fact that Gil-galad must have been in a particularly sadistic mood to have arranged it in the first place. Privately he thought it had been a good idea, both practical and supportive, and that Elros should have thought of it for himself.   
  
He only managed to avoid listening to a further list of complaints from the normally amiable Elros, this time revolving round Gil-galad, on the grounds that Laslech needed her evening walk, made evident by the fact that the dog, who had recently graduated to walking unleashed at his side, was already waiting at the door. About to head out into the wind-tossed night, Elrond paused.  
  
“’Ros?”   
  
Elros, lying on the couch beneath the window, his feet up on the rest, was feeling tired and disinclined to move. He turned his head to look at his brother.   
  
“After you reach the new land, you’ll make sure someone walks her, won’t you? I know you won’t have much time yourself to begin with. She likes her walk in the evening.”  
  
Elros took a breath. This was a minor detail amongst a sea of items to be dealt with, most of which had no margin for error. He had spent little time with Laslech, in fact he had never been particularly fond of dogs, but she had been a gift from people who would be numbered amongst his new subjects and he would make certain she was properly cared for. Also, his brother was fond of her, and Elros loved his brother. “I will see to it that she has her walk. Someone will take her, I promise.”   
  
Elrond looked at him, further questions on his lips, but in the end, realising that Elros was tired, simply nodded. His brother was the only person whose word he accepted without question. And possibly Glorfindel’s. And Ereinion’s, of course. He frowned at himself. He was really becoming quite disgustingly trusting.

~~~~

The garden was evocative of Erestor, and Elrond had to remind himself firmly that the black-haired Elf was almost certainly in his room by this time, possibly already in bed. This thought was of limited value, sending his imagination down paths he preferred to leave unexplored for the present.   
  
They followed the first half of their regular route about the grounds, but the wind had become unpleasant and when they were near the main entrance Elrond decided to cut the evening ramble short by returning home through the Palace. It had been suggested to him that Laslech should be leashed while indoors or in public areas, but it was late enough for him to dismiss the idea with a shrug.  
  
Two of Gil-galad’s senior councillors were standing just inside the entrance, deep in conversation, and he considered braving the rising storm and returning the way he had come, but he was tired of having sand and small debris blown into his eyes. It wouldn’t have bothered Elros, but in some ways Elrond’s likes and dislikes were more in line with those normal to the Second-born than his brother’s would ever be.  
  
“Come on, girl,” he said softly, reaching down to pat the dog affectionately. “Next to me. Walk nicely.”  
  
They walked sedately past the two Elves, who glanced up, registered vague disapproval, something Elrond encountered far too often for it to bother him, and then returned to their discussion. Laslech kept perfectly in step with her companion for another minute, till she suddenly became aware of a potential distraction and, with an excited yelp, shot through the half-open door to their left.   
  
“Laslech,” he called, trying to express sharpness in a near whisper. “Come here!”   
  
Such actions from her normally heralded the discovery of a friend, and his thoughts went immediately to Erestor, seeing black hair, heavy-lidded dark eyes, velvet lips… He took a deep, firm breath, attempting to control the delicious combination of excitement and unease flooding him at the memory of that mouth on his, and followed Laslech into the dim, firelit room.  
  
She was standing on her hind legs, almost bouncing in her efforts to lick the face of an Elf who was sprawled in a chair by the fire, his legs stretched out to catch the warmth of the blaze. He had a hand on Laslech’s head and was patting her heavily. As Elrond crossed the room he realised two things more or less simultaneously: the Elf was Ereinion, and he was far from sober.  
  
Despite being insatiably curious, Elrond’s normal preference was to watch from the outside and remain uninvolved. He had never seen Ereinion drunk before, but his cousin’s choice to overindulge was no-one’s business but his own. Furthermore, he was the High King and if he wanted to sit in a darkened, though public, room and drink, that was his right. Elrond determined to retrieve his – Elros’ – dog and leave.   
  
Then he remembered the councillors he had passed, who would be more than happy to share gossip about the King with anyone willing to listen. Gil-galad managed his council with good humour and an unexpectedly firm hand, often provoking resentment in those circles where, despite the details of his pedigree, he was regarded as no more than Círdan’s protégé. Elrond, who would never leave someone he accepted as family open to harm or ridicule, set about taking control of the situation.   
  
“Laslech, down, get down, that’s enough! Sit!” Fitting actions to words, he pulled the dog off, pushing her bottom firmly down as he told her to sit and was a little surprised when she obeyed. She appeared to understand that something was less than right with the situation.   
  
Gil-galad reached down and continued to pat the dog. His other hand cradled an empty pewter goblet. He looked at Elrond blearily, then frowned in recognition and attempted to sit up. Elrond, a veteran of armed camps where wine had, on occasion, flowed freely and with predictable consequences, realised that Ereinion was horribly drunk. He noticed a flagon on the floor on the far side of the chair, and he wondered how much of the contents, if any, remained. He knew he would have a better chance of getting his cousin to his rooms unnoticed if he managed to avoid antagonizing him and therefore hoped the scowl was something he need not take personally. That hope was shattered immediately.  
  
“Oh, it’s you,” Gil-galad said flatly. “What else do you want?”  
  
Elrond knew there was no point in trying to have a sensible discussion with someone in the state his cousin’s speech suggested. He also remembered the morning he had tried to speak up for Glorfindel and the white-cold anger he had encountered and shivered involuntarily. He had no idea how far alcohol might change Gil-galad’s normally amiable personality, but the King certainly looked less than pleased to see him.  
  
“Nothing, I don’t want anything, Sire. I just wondered if something was wrong, if I could fetch someone… something…?” Some instinct kept him from mentioning Glorfindel by name.  
  
Gil-galad glared at him. “Don’t need anyone. Don’t need anything,” he declared firmly. “Alone. Kings must be alone. Used to it.” He seemed to think about this for a moment. “Not good though.”   
  
The place within Elrond that retained vital information about people’s desires and motives became alert, but he turned the main focus of his attention to the problem of getting a large, apparently unfriendly Elf upstairs without drawing attention to either of them. The three of them, he thought wryly. Laslech would need to be on her best behaviour, too.   
  
“No, I’m sure being alone isn’t good, Sire,” he said, trying for a reassuring tone. “And I don’t see why you believe Kings are meant to be. You aren’t, anyway. You have lord Círdan, you have family, friends, there’s Glori…”  
  
“No Glorfindel,” Gil-galad said firmly, nodding his head and gesturing with the hand holding the empty wine cup. “Can’t. Your Glorfindel.”  
  
Making no attempt to understand this, Elrond raised his eyes to the ceiling and drew in a deep breath. “Sire, can we talk about this later?” he asked steadily. “If we go to your rooms there’ll be lamplight, a better fire. Maybe you can have another cup of wine…?”   
  
This was greeted with a blank stare. “Nothing wrong with this fire,” he was informed. Somewhere off on the edge of hearing Elrond became aware the Elves he had left at the entrance had moved a little closer. He reached down, took the cup, and placed it firmly on the floor next to the flagon, fending off Gil-galad’s attempts to snatch it back. He gave the flagon an experimental shake. It too was empty.  
  
Pushing aside the memory of ice-blue eyes in a quiet room, he knelt beside Laslech who was sitting quietly, seemingly unconcerned. The hand resting heavily on her back was large and capable, with long fingers and squared off, very clean fingernails. Elrond had always liked his cousin’s hands. Carefully he covered it with his own. There was no resistance. They sat like this for a while, the Elf, the Half-elf and the dog, and listened to the fire hissing and crackling and the wind rattling against the windows. Finally he looked up into half-closed eyes. “Why no Glorfindel?” he asked gently. “What’s wrong, Ereinion?”  
  
Gil-galad sighed heavily. “Círdan says. Can’t be weak. Need heirs, Círdan says. You… understand him. Like gold. Golden.“  
  
Elrond took a moment to make sense of this. “Círdan doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Those things are your choice, nothing to do with him.”  
  
“Can’t.” The blue eyes looked suddenly bleak and alone and almost sober. Elrond felt his heart contract in sympathy, and experienced a burst of real anger against Círdan, very different to the normal reflexive irritation. He squeezed the hand still resting under his before rising gracefully.  
  
“Let’s just get to your rooms. Come on. Let me walk with you and make sure no one bothers you.” Or gets close enough to try and talk to you and smell the wine, he added to himself.   
  
Gil-galad stared up at him, assessing the offer. Finally he sighed and nodded and, taking the proffered hand, struggled laboriously to his feet, swaying ominously as he did so. One of the King’s side braids had come unfastened, Elrond noticed; the dark, heavy hair swayed with every motion, and he looked tired, sad and a little confused.   
  
Resisting the urge to tuck the loose hair behind an ear, Elrond considered the practicalities, then tucked a shoulder under one muscular arm and, turning to look at Ereinion from an angle that was far closer than anything either had experienced before said, “Right, hold onto me. Try and make it look natural. And don’t talk to anyone. We don’t want the whole of Lindon gossiping that you had to be helped to your bed.”

~~~~

Gil-galad proved far less difficult to settle for the night than Elrond had expected. The King was not so drunk that he failed to understand the need for discretion, and the distance to his rooms was covered uneventfully, save for some hesitation on the stairs that had the Half-elf’s heart in his throat as he imagined himself, entangled with the High King, tumbling down to the bottom.   
  
Once inside, Gil-galad headed straight for his bed, giving Elrond his first look at the royal bedchamber – simple but pleasant, he noted, and decorated in shades of green and blue. His cousin more or less fell onto the bed and into sleep, leaving him to take off boots and loosen what clothing he found impossible to remove. Finally, having done his best, he drew the covers up from the other side of the bed and over Ereinion, scooped random items of clothing onto a chair, and let himself out. The two guards outside the door stared straight ahead. Elrond had already made the need for discretion quite clear to them.  
  
He returned home – it was finally beginning to feel like a home – with Laslech to find Elros had already retired for the night. He had been feeling the strain of the final preparations over the last few weeks and seemed to be almost permanently tired. Elrond tried to settle down with a book, but found himself drawn once more outdoors, some combination of the howling wind and the smell of the sea making him restless, unable to settle.   
  
The Palace was quiet. Elves loved the night, walked happily under moon and starlight, but the weather was wild enough to have driven inside almost everyone besides the guards, whose stations were all known to the Half-elf and easily avoided. He walked at an even pace, going nowhere in particular while giving the impression of having a set destination.   
  
The terrace that ran the length of the private wing of the Palace was in semi-darkness when his steps finally led him there, but as he rounded the corner he saw he was not alone. A pale figure stood straight and solitary beside the balustrade, one hand resting on the stone barrier. Torchlight picked out gold lights in the long hair, confirming the identity of the other wanderer in the night as Galadriel. Elrond moved back silently, seeking shadow while he waited to see if she meant to stay or leave.   
  
His attention was centred on staying as silent as possible and he jumped violently at a touch to his shoulder. He turned sharply and found himself a hand’s-breadth away from Glorfindel, who was wrapped securely against the night in a dark cloak, and whose hair was sensibly braided against the wind.   
  
“Are you trying to scare me to death?” he hissed.   
  
Glorfindel grinned briefly. “I wanted to warn you not to disturb her.”  
  
Elrond looked over his shoulder at the tall, still form, then back to Glorfindel. “That’s Ereinion’s aunt, Galadriel,” he explained softly. “I think we’re distantly related – I forget quite how.”   
  
Glorfindel nodded, smiling. “Yes, I know who she is. I’ve known her all my life – my first life anyway.”  
  
Elrond shot him a half-amused glance. “You said that quite naturally. I suppose you can get used to anything if you have to. It’s starting to get easier, isn’t it? What do you think she’s doing out here this late at night?”  
  
“No, it doesn’t just get easier,” Glorfindel corrected. “It takes a lot of work, but I’m trying. And her? She’s being Galadriel, that’s what she’s doing.”  
  
They were standing as close as lovers, yet without the tension. Elrond felt a sense of security that, up till then, only Ereinion’s presence had offered. Glorfindel had an aura of strength and steadiness which had not been obvious when they first met but which was increasing as the golden warrior found his place in the world once more. Elrond wondered what he had been like in Gondolin. He thought that the freedom available in Lindon might suit him far better than the confines of the Hidden City.  
  
He looked back again at the immobile shape, outlined against the night by her light-coloured clothing and long, fair hair. “She looks as though she’s listening to something?” he ventured. Glorfindel laughed almost soundlessly, warm breath ghosting across Elrond’s face.  
  
“That’s possible, of course,” he agreed. “But I think she’s just enjoying the night. She always loved storms.”  
  
Elrond turned to study Galadriel, moving back against Glorfindel in an unconscious bid to find shelter from the wind, and was aware of hard muscle and, despite the weather, a faint warmth. A hand rested lightly, naturally on his shoulder, and they stood together watching Finarfin’s daughter.   
  
“If you were looking for Ereinion, I can save you the trouble,” Elrond said, remembering belatedly and tilting his head back to speak close to Glorfindel’s ear. “He’s having an early night.”  
  
He felt Glorfindel tense slightly, thought about what he had said, and realised it might be misconstrued. “A little too much wine,” he explained. “I tucked him into bed myself. It was interesting.”  
  
“He was drunk? I’ve never seen him take more than two or three cups.” Glorfindel remembered a night not very long ago when Gil had in fact drunk somewhat more than two cups of wine, and how the night had ended for them, and found himself blushing in the dark, something he still did far too easily even though he was starting to overcome many of the more obvious signs of shyness.   
  
Elrond chuckled softly. “I found him sitting in the dark downstairs. And no, I’ve never seen him drunk before either. He said something about doing some thinking.” He decided it was better to keep his guesses concerning the subject to himself. “No, you’re right, I don’t think she’s listening to anything.”  
  
“Is he all right? What do you think she’s doing then?”  
  
“She’s watching something. And he’s fine; he’ll feel terrible in the morning, though. You might want to speak softly when you see him.”   
  
Glorfindel gave a quiet snort of laughter, and then said, “There’s nothing for her to see out there, nothing but an empty garden.”  
  
Some instinct spoke to Elrond, great-grandson of Lúthien, making him focus his full attention on Galadriel, who remained standing straight and motionless, gazing out into the night. Her hair, he realised, seemed impervious to the wind - it barely moved. He was reminded for an instant of a pavilion on a beach, with the whisper of the sea in the background, then abruptly he felt as though he had moved into another space, somewhere neither warm nor cold, where the wind no longer blew. The space was already occupied by a presence of immense power, will and defiance. He saw a tumble of pictures – faces and scenes foreign and meaningless, unconnected to him, followed by words, distinct and clear.   
  
He came back on a breath at the tightening of Glorfindel’s hand on his shoulder. “Elrond? What’s wrong?”  
  
“She’s watching the sea and looking back into the West.”   
  
His voice shook and he found he was shivering and couldn’t stop. Glorfindel felt him shaking and, removing his cloak, wrapped it round the Half-elf. Glancing over Elrond’s shoulder he saw Galadriel turn her head and look directly at them. Somewhere on the edge of thought he felt rather than heard soft laughter. He glared at her. The gift of speaking from mind to mind had never drawn him, but he had encountered it before.   
  
Placing a protective hand on Elrond’s shoulder and using a skill he had no idea he possessed, and which had formed no part of his first life, he answered laughter with disapproval before he raised a barrier and closed her out from both himself and Elrond. He rested his cheek briefly against the soft, wind-tangled hair. “Come, enough of this. Time to get out of the cold. Let’s find some wine and leave her to the night.”


	14. Chapter 14

Glorfindel woke to discover that he was lying stretched across the bed, his sleeping self already accustomed to competing for space with a large, sprawling and often restless figure. It took him a moment to realise he was alone and in the room assigned to him on his arrival in Lindon. Since they had become lovers, his nights had been spent in Gil-galad’s bed and he had woken each morning to warm flesh and a sleepy, amourous greeting.  
  
Although it was well before sunrise, a sense of restless purpose and a need to clear his head drove him to dress in light, casual clothing, bind back his hair and head outdoors. He needed to examine his past in order to determine his future, and when he wanted to order his thoughts Glorfindel had a tried and trusted practice. He ran.  
  
He started at an easy pace, but by the time he had reached the cottages and small garden patches behind the kitchens he was moving fast, head up, arms and legs moving smoothly. Buildings, trees, Elves who at such an early hour were probably either cleaners or kitchen staff blurred past him as he strove to reach the state where it seemed he inhabited two worlds; the physical world of controlled breath and delight in his body being put to optimum use, and the inner landscape where his thoughts expressed themselves in pictures, half articulated ideas and snatches of sound.  
  
Looking back at his first life was becoming increasingly difficult as time passed. Lately, however, even simple, everyday details were requiring more and more effort to recall. The circumstances leading to his fatal encounter on the Cirith Thoronath had been hazy and dreamlike from the first and his death, though clearly detailed, seemed almost to belong to another. He assumed this distance was his mind’s attempt to protect him from the memory. Still clear, however, was the way he had tip-toed through life, certain of his lack of worth, unconvinced even when given praise and commands by his king, or when courted by someone as desirable and popular as Ecthelion.   
  
As he left behind the rough, springy texture of the grass in favour of the beaten track leading from the stables down towards the shore, Glorfindel grinned briefly and humourlessly to himself. He wasn’t stupid; he had noticed Elrond’s lack of enthusiasm while he had been singing the praises of his first love. Now that he had experience of being treated with affection and tenderness, he could see the lack in Ecthelion with clear eyes. Up until his death though, he had firmly believed that what he received was far more than he could ever hope to deserve.  
  
In his second life his attempts at safe anonymity had failed almost from the start. Gil-galad had used a combination of kindness and common sense to draw him out of the hole in which he had sought refuge, and followed this with tenderness and passion that, for Glorfindel, were like the ending of an unnoticed drought. Despite all this, he knew he clung to his shyness as though it were a cloak, a shield to shelter behind. His father’s disappointment in him had cut deeply, leaving all but indelible scars. It had coloured his actions and opinions, made him distrust any evidence that he was well-regarded or worthy of love.   
  
He frowned as he considered the way he cautiously filled the less-occupied corners of Gil-galad’s time as though grateful for the notice, being careful not to presume too much, and he wondered at his lover’s tolerance. Worse still, Glorfindel realised, was the manner in which he had refused the command position offered to him. True, it was diametrically opposed to his views on life, but he had done so with scant grace and a denial of the compliment offered to him that was little less than an insult. He felt himself colour at the memory and his pace slowed and an awareness of his surroundings returned.  
  
His route had finally taken him down to the beach. Reaching the water’s edge, he kept running, heading towards the far point where the rocks came down to meet the sea and it was impossible to go further without climbing. He considered wading out a short distance so that he could enjoy the fresh salty coolness of the water but instead, clambering up the rocks, he sat and caught his breath and then offered the customary gesture of silent respect to Lord Ulmo.   
  
His experience of the ocean was limited; he still regarded it with a quiet mixture of awe and respect, and could listen to its voices and watch its endless motion for hours. The sounds of wave and wind blended in his mind and, leaning back on his elbows, he found himself smiling at the antics of the flocked seabirds fighting amongst themselves out beyond the breakers. He stayed like this and watched the sun rise, aware of being alive, strong and unscathed, all of these things an incomprehensible gift beyond gifts.   
  
Eventually he was ready to address the growing impatience he felt towards himself.  
  
In his more introspective moments, he knew there was no logical basis for his insecurities. His household in Gondolin had certainly been both proud and fond of him. His warriors had been loyal and respectful, knowing that he genuinely cared about them and had an interest in their lives and problems. Until he heard Gil-galad discussing the qualities of a good commander with Elros, he had never realised that behaviour he regarded as common sense and simple decency was, in fact, the exception rather than the rule.   
  
Meeting people and building friendships held less terror for him now, mainly due to Gil-galad’s influence and example. He and Erestor had been comfortable together from their first meeting and he often felt as though he had known Elrond for years. In fact, his unexpected ability to respond in kind to Galadriel the previous night had been born out of his instinctive impulse to protect a friend. Elven skills of the mind were not his way, and he had little curiosity about the means he had employed as a shield against his highly skilled cousin, but the ability had been available to him when he needed it, a weapon like any other.   
  
His response had been that of a warrior, protecting his declared lord far more than it had been a simple rebuke of an abuse by a much-loved cousin. It was work he understood and it had been made possible by the fact that, although in all other ways he was insecure, unwilling or unable to put himself forward lest he draw attention to his perceived shortcomings, as a warrior he permitted himself to be proactive, fearless, proficient.   
  
This single event had resolved itself into a long-overdue catalyst. Change had been wrought by something as small and as simple as a one word question which had kept him awake for much of the night: Why? If he was capable of acknowledging himself a proficient warrior, then why not also accept he might have other laudable qualities, as Gil-galad told him with affectionately amused regularity?   
  
Firmly he reminded himself that he had been born in the West in the time before the darkness, he had crossed the Helcaraxë one foot before the other, speaking encouragement and comfort to all around him - there had been no room for shyness and insecurity on the Ice - he had survived bitter warfare and had returned from death itself. He might never agree with those who named him a hero, but it was time, perhaps, to reassess his worth.  
  
He got to his feet and stretched, flexing his muscles, arching his back and looking up to the paling sky, then turned and headed back the way he had come, slowly at first, then increasing his speed till his feet were barely touching the hard sand at the water’s edge.

~~~~

By the time he neared the end of his routine and Elrond had still not appeared, Erestor had begun to suspect that last night had been too much too soon and that the Princeling was avoiding him. He was quite disconcerted by the relief he felt when the door opened and the Half-elf, clad in a casual grey robe and with his hair loose save for a single braid down the back, came out onto the patio, where he remained a silent watcher until the final sequence was concluded.   
  
Their greeting was cautious, neither of them being completely sure what, if anything, the kiss had meant, whether it had been a not-so-simple response to the intimacy of the moment, or the beginning of something greater. As the elder and also, as he was starting to understand, by far the more experienced, Erestor supposed he should be taking the lead, but he found himself at a loss. Kissing princes was out of his experience.  
  
It was Elrond, however, who had the idea of walking part way with Erestor to his office, which effectively reduced the tension while still offering them time to talk. Their route should have taken them through the garden and round to the steps, but Elrond led the way back into the apartment instead, and through the private wing of the palace, saying something about a shortcut to the administrative area. Erestor tried to look around him without being obvious about it, and was left with impressions of rich hangings, glowing wood, beautifully woven carpets, and exquisite paintings.  
  
Once they reached the public area they had to cross the courtyard, and the activity around the side entrance to the Main Hall caught both their attention. Elrond, with cat-like curiosity, suggested that a quick look at the preparations for the evening would do no harm and would take no more than minutes. This in turn led to Erestor’s introduction to the Half-elf’s erratic time sense.  
  
“I never see the point to these things,” Elrond said, watching four Elves wrestling the royal canopy into place above the head table. “Don’t you miss the informality of the Companies? Sometimes it feels very…crowded here, very loud.”   
  
Erestor shot him a quick glance. He had forgotten how much time the twins had spent in the wild places of Middle-earth. Whilst under the control of Maedhros they had lived like fugitives, moving from one hidden camp to the next.  
  
“I almost forgot that you didn’t live your whole life at a royal court,” he confessed. “You certainly carry yourself as though you did. Not a bad thing,” he added quickly, before he could be misunderstood. He was so late for his duties by now that it had simply ceased being a cause for concern. Instead of worrying, he had spent the last hour trying to keep up, to say or do nothing to make this spirit of enchantment decide he had other business and curtail their time.  
  
“I hate formal dinners,” Elrond stated gloomily, gesturing vaguely at the scene being played out before them and pulling his mouth slightly at Erestor’s comments.   
  
Erestor, who had never attended a formal dinner, who had, in fact, no idea of the procedures involved, gave him an amused look. They were sitting at the top of the steps to the gallery, a painting-lined balcony, running around three sides of the Main Hall of the Palace. The music would be provided from this upper floor, which would also be one of several informal venues, allowing guests to talk and share a cup of wine, and watch the scene below before dinner was served and afterwards when there would be dancing. Cleaners and musicians were hurrying up and down the stairs, forcing the pair to lean closer to the railings and to one another, to make space. Neither of them suggested moving to a less crowded spot.   
  
Below them the tables had been set out, the shorter one at the head of the room, the two long ones down the sides, and they were currently being decorated with flowers, each place being marked for convenience’s sake with a sprig of rosemary. Seats were being brought in; benches for the lower end, individual stools for the upper level and high backed chairs for the top table, where Gil-galad would sit flanked by the guests of honour, one of whom would be Elrond’s brother.  
  
“I’ve never been to a formal dinner,” Erestor admitted. “You’ll have to tell me about it tomorrow.”  
  
Elrond gave him a sharp look from under impossibly long lashes. “You’ll be here, surely?” he asked in surprise. “Your position’s senior enough and anyhow Ereinion likes you, and he made the final changes to the list himself. He always does.”  
  
Erestor shook his head, smiling slightly. “I received no invitation. Just as well; I have nothing suitable to wear anyway.”  
  
Elrond opened his mouth to speak, but at that moment was forced to lean against the railings so that they could make way for a musician carrying a lute and another stringed instrument unlike anything he had seen before. Erestor moved over also, which put him almost as close to Elrond as he had been the previous night. He was quite content for the traffic on the short flight of stairs to continue indefinitely. Straightening up, Elrond said firmly,  
  
“You have to be there. Not just for the experience, but because it would look bad if you were left off. It’s a simple division. Those who matter get invited; the rest don’t.”  
  
Erestor blinked. This was a fair description of the way the pecking order amongst the administrative staff worked but he had hardly expected the Princeling to know this. Elrond saw his surprise and quirked an eyebrow at him. “I pay attention when Ereinion talks,” he said rather smugly. “And he knows how things work here better than anyone. He says you can’t control something you don’t understand.”  
  
Erestor nodded agreement. This was one of his pivotal beliefs, and the reason he was making such a smooth transition into his new position. When he failed to understand something he asked questions. He said as much to Elrond, who rewarded him with an approving smile.   
  
Made bold by proximity, Erestor returned the smile and tentatively reached out to lift and tidy back the long dark hair which had looped over his companion’s shoulder. Elrond’s uncertainty had been eased by the activity around them, but something in his eyes went still and watchful for a moment, before he relaxed and began to describe what he remembered of the seating plan. Erestor kept very quiet, listened attentively, and continued to play with the shining hair which streamed loose down the Half-elf’s back.  
  
“…and Glori will probably sit over there next to that pillar, if that’s where they’re putting the canopy. He was an important Lord in Gondolin and Ereinion says his rank should still get respect. And you’ll sit around about there…” He pointed to a spot considerably further down the Hall. “Not the best place but not the worst either.”  
  
“I told you I wasn’t invited,” Erestor reminded him in amusement, pushing his companion lightly. Elrond pushed back, a little harder.  
  
“And I told you it’s important for you to be here. Which means you’re invited. I’ll make sure you get the actual invitation if you insist, but you need to start planning what you’ll be wearing. Black’s easy, and it suits you and I can loan you some jewellery, if you’d like. Ereinion always says it’s important to look as though you’re worth something.”  
  
There had been rather a lot of ‘Ereinion says’, Erestor noted. He hoped both for his sake and for Glorfindel’s that it implied nothing more than respect for an older and much-admired relative.

~~~~

Glorfindel’s next stop after the beach was the complex of long rooms and smaller outdoor enclosures where the arts of war were practised. He selected a weapon, found an unoccupied corner and proceeded to go through the turns, slices and lunges that are part of any swordsman’s repertoire, mentally assessing himself as though his actions were those of a stranger.   
  
Yes, he decided, satisfied with what he saw: not only was he still very good at what he did, but almost every day it seemed that a little more strength, a fraction more speed had returned while he slept. He spent an hour engrossed in training, which included some knife work and an outdoor attempt at archery, for which he had little skill despite having a great liking, and then he was free till the afternoon when he was scheduled to meet with his first students.   
  
Still slightly flushed and sweat-dampened from his exertions he went to see Carod, and for the first time recognised the admiration and excitement in the young groom’s eyes as they talked. The horse was to all intents and purposes recovered and ready to be ridden again and Glorfindel, pleased and relieved, staying a short time to talk to him and stroke his nose. When he left it was not before thanking the immensely proud youngster, and asking him to take the horse for a short, sedate ride.   
  
Going back to his rooms, he washed and changed out of the leggings and plain shirt and put on the blue tunic that he had previously thought too bright. He brushed his hair and then, rejecting the careful braids he habitually wore, left it loose, caught lightly back from his face with a tortoiseshell clasp. For his entire life he had been told he had exceptionally lovely hair. It was time, he decided, to take people at their word and stop worrying so much about drawing uncomfortable attention.  
  
He knew that there were many areas of his life that needed change, but he decided it would be best to tackle them one at a time, starting in the place where he felt the most secure. Taking a firm breath, he went to wake Gil-galad.

~~~~

The morning sun brought Gil-galad back to grudging consciousness. Someone had drawn back the drapes, and the sunlight, though weak and uncertain, fell directly across his pillow as though out of spite. He tried to turn his head away from the intruding light and sullen pain lanced through it, making him grunt with surprise.  
  
He turned over slowly, his eyes slitted against light and pain, to ascertain the identity of the person who would be receiving the full brunt of his discomfort, and was confronted by a golden-haired Elf clad in sky blue who was sitting in a chair under the window watching him.  
  
Gil-galad eased himself up on one elbow, pushing back long, extremely untidy black hair with a hand that was less than steady. They stared at one another. Glorfindel had a determined look about him, and Gil-galad wondered if he had perhaps said something contentious in his sleep. The thought of less than wise utterances led him uneasily to a tangled memory of Elrond which his mind was unready to retrieve, and he backed away from it, hoping there was less to remember than he suspected.   
  
“Good morning. I won’t ask how you slept,” Glorfindel said neutrally. Gil-galad had no idea how the blonde felt about drunkenness, but had an idea he was about to find out. He nodded carefully, and his head throbbed and thudded in time to the movement. He winced, closing his eyes against the pain and therefore missed the smile that tugged at the corner of Glorfindel’s mouth, and was quickly swallowed.  
  
“Long night, from the look of it?  
  
He grunted and tried to sit up, though better of it and lay back down in a snarl of hair, a muscular arm across his face.  
  
“You’re the king, and if you decide to spend the morning in bed recovering from the night’s excesses, no one would try and object,” Glorfindel informed him, trying to speak severely but having to fight off an urge to start laughing. It was the first time he had seen Gil looking vulnerable, and he found it both endearing and encouraging. It made him feel that he did in fact have a chance of being an equal partner in their new but fast-growing relationship. “However, I was asked to mention that your assistant is looking for you, you have a council meeting just before lunch, and I was told you specifically wanted to go riding with Elros this afternoon.”  
  
“You my new assistant?” Gil-galad growled, squeezing his eyes closed and trying to force the headache back to a manageable level. He had a picture of galloping along the beach with Elros and all but shuddered. “No riding,” he added firmly. “Just…not.”   
  
He opened one eye to look again at Glorfindel, still settled quite comfortably in the chair. Something besides the unexpectedly bright tunic seemed different about him, but Gil-galad was in no mood to try and understand what or why. One question felt important, though, and this he asked. “You weren’t here last night, were you? “  
  
“No, but I heard about it from Elrond. He said you needed to think, that there were some problems you were trying to solve.” Glorfindel crossed his legs and leaned back and the sun catching his shining hair was a sight Gil-galad found somewhat too bright for comfort. “If you’re willing, in future I’d be happy to listen if there are things you need to talk about. I’ll even try and keep you company with the wine. Solitary drinking sounds like a lonely business to me.”  
  
Gil-galad studied him in thoughtful silence. The Elf, who looked like Glorfindel but had the mannerisms of someone far more self-assured, and who sounded rather like…rather like Elrond actually, rose and came over to the bed and poured a cup of water from the beaker on the nightstand. Gil saw there was also a bowl of sliced fruit and some bread and what looked like honey. His stomach protested at the thought, but he accepted the proffered cup, trying to keep the water from spilling.   
  
“I think we need to decide something,” the clear, implacable voice continued, while a firm though gentle hand came to rest on his shoulder. “Either I am to be treated simply as a trophy, an unlikely conquest to add to your apparently impressive list. Or…” Gil-galad opened his mouth to protest, but found no words and instead looked mutely up into the deep blue eyes that met his with level calm. “Or, we can try and have the type of relationship where you can confide in me rather than seeking a solution in wine. And of course I know this is not a habit of yours, but the principle remains.”  
  
Shaking his head at the less than impressive sight before him, Glorfindel went and found a light robe which he tossed onto the bed.   
  
“I know you hate the idea of confiding in anyone,” he added more gently. ”I also find it difficult. Perhaps we could try and teach each other? It might be more effective than drinking alone in the dark and then telling Elrond just enough to confuse him into sharing with me the parts he thinks I should know.”  
  
Gil-galad took the robe and dragged it on. He assumed this new, organised Glorfindel had already arranged for a bath to be drawn for him. It was clear he would have no choice but to get up and face the day, since he felt too ill to stand against this onslaught.   
  
Later, he promised himself, he and Elrond were going to be having a discussion about the meanings of family loyalty and confidentiality


	15. Chapter 15

“Erestor, wait a moment.”  
  
Erestor stopped in surprise. The unadorned, grassy courtyard outside his office was one of the last places he would have expected to find Elrond. Despite, or perhaps because of, having spent years living in armed camps, the Half-elf’s interest in matters military appeared no more than minimal and confined to training several times a week with sword and bow as was expected of any well-born male of fighting age. However, here he was.   
  
The Princeling came to a graceful halt before him, then paused to look around. Laslech, leashed after an earlier excursion to the kitchens had led to a brief exchange between Elrond and a badly hungover King, which had ended in clear instructions regarding leads and forbidden areas, sat at his feet and scratched herself. “You’d think they could have made it a bit less cheerless,” Elrond commented. “Not exactly warm and welcoming, is it?”  
  
“We’re here to work, you see, not to enjoy our surroundings.”   
  
Erestor shifted the heavy books of inventory records more securely in the crook of his arm. Someone, possibly the King, had taken a sudden interest in the contents of the weapons stores. Elrond turned his head to the side to read the embossed titles.  
  
“Oh, is he still fussing about that? He got an inventory back from one of the watch stations that failed to tally and he’s been checking up on everyone else since then. I brought you these – for tonight.”  
  
He held out a dark velvet bag, which Erestor looked at uncertainly. Elrond thrust it towards him. “I said I’d lend you some jewellery for tonight. I thought this would look nice?” The last few words were offered on a querying note and Erestor responded at once by taking the bag and opening the drawstring to look inside.  
  
Dark red stones that his mind informed him had to be rubies gleamed back at him, seeming to glow with an inner life. He looked up wordlessly. “They’re strung on silk thread. You braid them into your hair,” Elrond explained helpfully. “I’m sorry, I only found five strands. My first thought was moonstones, but these are better. They’ll compliment you eyes. They’re lovely and warm … the rubies I mean.”  
  
His voice trailed off and they shared silence, then Erestor said carefully. “These look quite valuable. I’ve never handled rubies before, nor any other precious stone. I’m grateful of course, but…”  
  
“They’re a loan,” Elrond said firmly. “If they were a gift you could worry about it. Elros and I share things all the time…” Erestor saw how he flinched as he spoke his brother’s name and was reminded of the reason for the evening’s festivities to which he had, true to the Half-elf’s word, received an invitation. He reached out instinctively, resting the palm of his hand lightly against a smooth cheek. His eyes moved unbidden to warm, full lips and he heard Elrond draw in a breath, but they were interrupted by a low, cool voice.  
  
“Elrond? How fortunate. Perhaps you can help me.”  
  
Tall, beautiful and very pregnant, Galadriel stood in a beam of sunlight, her face a picture of innocent charm, her eyes thoughtful.  
  
Elrond shoved the bag and Laslech’s lead into Erestor’s hand. “Wear them,” he said quietly, his eyes intense. “Please? They’ll suit you. And can you look after her while I see to this? She’s not allowed inside till Ereinion calms down. I’ll not be long.”   
  
Not waiting for a response from Erestor he straightened up, turned and shook back his wayward hair. “Yes, Lady? How can I help you?"

~~~~

She had a wish, she said, to see what progress had been made with the new library, built to replace the rather cramped and inadequate rooms that had been part of the original design of the Palace. Once indoors they made their way slowly in the direction of the new development, with Galadriel speaking amiably about generalities. Elrond kept up, listened politely and tried to relax. The Aman-born regularly made not only him but most of his generation ill at ease. There was something about them that was simply – other.   
  
The corridors were quiet at this time of the day, and the weak sunlight slanting in through the long windows divided the floor into alternating bars of light and darkness. Their footsteps echoed slightly, counterpoint to the swish of her gown. For some reason Elrond felt a small rush of relief each time another Elf came into view.   
  
She had been discussing the difficulties involved in finding reliable servants for the duration of their stay in the little house she and Celeborn had taken overlooking the beach, and he was unprepared when she suddenly slanted a look at him from her strange, sea-hued eyes.  
  
“This was your first encounter with your hidden side, was it not?”  
  
They stopped between the windows, in light-bracketed shadow. Galadriel seemed even taller than she did in sunlight, her eyes glittered eerily and her half smile had a secretive air.   
  
“Last night?”  
  
She raised an eyebrow slightly, moved back into sunlight that caught the silver in her hair and nodded. “Those gifts and skills will take time and practice to master. This is merely a beginning.”   
  
She walked on in silence, light and shadow, swish and step, allowing him to consider her words, which he did.   
  
“What happened to me last night?”  
  
Without answering, Galadriel passed through the open doorway into the new library, Elrond trailing behind her. Work had been completed for the day, and the cavernous main room was deserted. When finished, it would be remarkable. Long reading tables, as well as work stations for the copyists, were situated beneath the high windows which stretched almost the length of the outer wall, creating a well lit area dedicated to work and study. The rest of the space was taken up with empty blond wood bookcases and scroll holders, save for an area well away from the shelves where there was a cosy fireplace, surrounded by couches and chairs. They were currently covered with dust sheets, as were the tables, giving the room an abandoned, unwelcoming air. Double doors, one of which stood ajar, led out onto what would eventually be a garden of fragrant foliage, with benches looking out over the sea to the harbour.   
  
Galadriel picked her way across a floor littered with offcuts and boxes, heading for the couches before the fireplace. Elrond hurried to catch up with her, unaccustomed to pregnant women, uncertain what was expected of him, terrified she would trip. He brushed the cover off hastily, watching sawdust rise into the light where it hovered and danced. Galadriel staggered slightly, causing his heart to rise into his throat, and he reached out an automatic arm to her, which she grasped to steady herself as she sat, her other hand resting lightly on her belly.   
  
For the instant the contact between the three of them lasted , Elrond had the strangest sense of a far shadow of destiny, shot through with an uneasy mixture of warmth and horror, and then it was gone, leaving him facing Galadriel, who was looking up at him with eyes briefly narrowed in darkened interest before gesturing him to sit beside her. There was a small table centred between the chairs, and he chose to perch upon this instead.   
  
The room was oppressively quiet save for the all-pervasive voice of the sea, a sound which, for all his life, Elrond would associate with Lindon. Galadriel was sitting with her back to the light, her face in shadow. The impression she gave was of a cloud of silver gilt hair and a pair of brilliant eyes. Elrond become very aware of the fact that they were completely alone. This was emphasised when she laughed softly, the sound carrying a note of moondark and alien shores, making him shiver.  
  
“Last night you accidentally stepped into the space I occupy. Done properly, this skill will allow you to speak mind to mind with another of like ability or to read hearts and determine worth. Untrained, it remains an invasive gift capable of far more harm than good.”  
  
“You laughed at me and then it was as though a door closed,” Elrond said thoughtfully, curious in spite of himself. “Before that there were pictures, emotions…but disconnected, meaningless to me.”  
  
“That is because you lack training,” Galadriel told him gravely, her low voice picking up some slight echo from the empty room, causing the skin on the nape of his neck to prickle. “This is why these gifts are given to our kind and not the Secondborn. We have the time required to master them, which is something they lack.”  
  
Restless as her reputation implied, she rose and paced over to the study area, forcing him to follow. She spoke as she walked, her voice rising and fading with the strange acoustics of the half-finished room. “As you age, so you will grow in power and skill, but while you are young you must learn the many possibilities of this craft and discover where your strengths lie.” She stood and looked out of the window for a moment, then glanced back at him over her shoulder. “This is the way of these things for such as you and I. This is who we are.”  
  
“I want to be a healer, not – not whatever this is,” Elrond said, taking firm hold of his abraded nerves and squinting to avoid looking into the sinking sun. He had been almost tempted by what she might be able to teach him, regardless of how uneasy she made him. However, the word ‘must’ had stung, and he said the first thing that came to his mind and was startled to realise that he spoke the truth. The training he sought was not in Galadriel’s gift, but in Ereinion’s. He forced himself to turn and look at her and was disconcerted when she simply nodded and smiled her small, pale smile.  
  
“Yes, of course you do,” she agreed. “You have the potential to become a healer of great ability and it will come to you in its time, as will the other. Both take application and patience, but for both you have a gift. They are facets of the destiny that will one day be yours.”   
  
As she spoke she stroked her hand lightly over the place where her babe rested, as though in communion. Elrond had a good sense of things happening here that were beyond his knowledge, a feeling that he instinctively responded to by mentally stepping back.  
  
“My lady, at the moment I have no urge to explore any of my – other gifts,” he began, seeing his opportunity to close the subject but, inevitably, his curiosity got the better of him, as always. “Though – I am curious, perhaps you could show me how you shut me out of your mind last night?”   
  
Galadriel gave him an amused look. “That? I would teach you that, of course, though not in isolation from other skills. However, those actions were not mine, but Glorfindel’s. Many of us born in the West have the aptitude for such things, though I had always thought him singularly uninterested in farspeech.”   
  
Turning, she made her way across to the doors leading out onto the fledgling garden, stopping in a beam of reddening light that added flame to her hair, making her momentarily look unfamiliar and strange.   
  
“I think it will be long before either of us understands why the Valar chose to continue Lúthien’s line amongst both First and Secondborn, but nothing, not your choice, not your gifts, certainly not your brother’s fate, are casual matters. Allowing me to train you will simply confirm rather than delay your destiny, young one. The Valar leave nothing to chance.”

~~~~

The dinner was long and, in Erestor’s opinion, successful. The food was both plentiful and well-prepared, the wine chosen from amongst the best vintages available. Gil-galad was known to believe that a host who stinted his guests could be regarded as suspect on many levels, and was earning a reputation for setting an excellent table. The music from the gallery made a pleasant backdrop to the rather disjointed but enjoyable conversation to be had at such times.   
  
Gil-galad sat at the main table, flanked by Elros and by Silbaron, who had been elected by the council to be Elros’ chief advisor. He was a Man of middle years from one of the settlements near the mouth of the Anduin, bearded as was their way, dark haired and grave eyed but, if the many laughing exchanges between himself and the High King were anything to judge by, certainly good humoured.  
  
Erestor had been seated approximately where Elrond had indicated, between one of the archivists and the wife of one of the healers. She turned out to be a good dinner companion, having a great deal of information about many of the guests. Erestor, from habit, collected information as others collect good plate or tapestries, and was happy to sit and listen, offering occasional murmurs of encouragement for her to continue.  
  
Elrond and Glorfindel sat not far from the high table, hosts to the Men who would form the nucleus of the Númenórean court. They sat together, sharing the canopy of estate, although the original idea had been for them to be placed closer to either end of the group. Elrond had arranged for them to be seated together before he and Erestor left the Hall that morning, implying it was somehow his fault that Glorfindel was excluded from the relative isolation of the King’s table. Having observed the quietly spoken hero’s discomfort when faced with a situation that forced him to make casual conversation, Erestor felt a rush of sympathy for him.  
  
As it turned out, Glorfindel needed to make very little effort, as Elrond went out of his way to be charming and hospitable, apparently determined to make a good impression on his brother’s behalf. Erestor sat, Elrond’s rubies laced through his hair, and tried not to stare too hard at the captivating being who smiled and laughed and exchanged words and toasts up and down the table.  
  
After dinner, the guests moved outside to the courtyard which, as was the custom in the evenings, had been transformed with coloured lanterns and clusters of cushions for casual seating. Torches in sconces flared at intervals around the square, adding to the festive atmosphere. While they mingled and talked, the tables and benches were removed and the Hall prepared for dancing. Erestor obtained a cup of wine and found a good vantage point to watch the crowd.   
  
The Princeling, he immediately noticed, was on the opposite side of the square and in deep conversation with his brother. Erestor was struck by the contrast between them – the same hair and eyes, of similar build and yet so very different. Elros had a wider face, his hair was smooth and very neat and he seemed a little broader across the shoulders. He was certainly more restrained and deliberate in his movements compared to his brother’s quicksilver grace. Erestor wondered what they were discussing so intensely.

~~~~

“….and then she went outside and sat on one of the benches, and I no longer existed. It was like being lectured by Maedhros.”   
  
“You need to stay away from her. She makes my nerves itch.”   
  
The twins stood together off to one side, sharing a rare few minutes of public privacy. Elros was surreptitiously watching a small group of young Elves on the far side of the square. He had no place in such circles; not only had his features changed over time to reflect his ties to the Secondborn, but as a King in training, the company of his peers was something he had been obliged to forfeit.   
  
Elrond knew everyone in these little cliques, although on the whole he remained uninvolved, set apart by his status as a descendant of legends and Gil-galad’s de facto heir. Now he followed his brother’s gaze and wondered at his interest. He usually found Gelladar, Bainon and their friends self-absorbed, boring, and interested in little more than riding, weaponry and sex. Well, he lacked personal experience but he was fairly sure there was nothing wrong with sex.   
  
“Bainon’s father wants him to bind with Dalbros’ eldest daughter,” he offered. “It’s a good match. Of course he thinks he can do better.”  
  
The proximity of the shadow of their separation all but covered the twins, but in a final act of defiance they tried their best to hold onto the last few threads of normal life. This often took the form of gossip, sharing rumours and guesses in a way that would soon be beyond their reach forever. Of one accord they considered Bainon and both snorted at the presumption. Bainon’s father held a position within Gil-galad’s growing administration that was no more than middling, defining the limits to which he could aspire in his efforts to see his son and daughter decently matched.   
  
Some Elves bonded for love, Elrond contemplated, but at court the majority simply pursued the most advantageous match available. Like Bainon’s sister for example, with her red-blonde hair and unusually dark eyes, and her misguided hopes of attracting the interest of a King. Elrond found the whole concept depressing. He was about to mention this to Elros but the uncrowned king of Númenor had just been approached by one of his new councillors and, all gracious smiles, reminiscent of Ereinion on a bad day, he excused himself, leaving Elrond to watch his departing back, the chill fingers of loss brushing his heart.

~~~~

Gil-galad stood a little apart from the crowd that always gathered about him during social events, a regal figure clad in deep scarlet, his hair bound with twists of ruby-studded mithril. Catching Elrond’s eye, he beckoned him with a brief motion of his head. He had seen the moment of vulnerability, quickly masked, and once again wondered which of the brothers would crack first. They had accepted their separate futures with seeming equanimity but, being far more intuitive than most gave him credit for, he sensed the pain and resentment that hovered just below the surface. He watched Elros walk away and wished, for the umpteenth time, that he knew what had really happened that day on the beach with Eönwë.  
  
Elrond’s first action was to try, using as much discretion as was possible given the difference in their heights, to determine the contents of Gil-galad’s wine cup, which the King helpfully lowered to waist level. “Twice watered,” he explained briefly.  
  
Elrond grinned. “I wonder you can face it. In your place I’d be seeking my bed early tonight.”  
  
Gil-galad smiled wryly and shrugged. “An idle wish. When this ends I have a meeting that should last at least two hours. I’ll be lucky to see my bed before dawn.”  
  
“Or Glorfindel,” Elrond added blandly, sipping wine. Something flickered in his cousin’s eyes and was gone. There was a pause and then Gil-galad glanced swiftly around before drawing a little closer to Elrond and lowering his voice.  
  
“Have you noticed anything…unusual about him today?”  
  
Elrond blinked. “Unusual? No, I don’t think so. What do you mean?”  
  
“Just unusual, that’s all. Sort of…decisive and …brisk.”  
  
“Brisk?” Elrond considered the word. “Not really, no. Though last night we shared a bit of a strange experience.”  
  
“Last night?”  
  
Elrond paused. This was as much Glorfindel’s story as his. Still, common sense told him he needed to confide this to Ereinion. He was out of his depth with Galadriel.  
  
“I…I saw her outside watching the sea. Glori and I were talking and then I seemed to go – to go somewhere else. Inside her mind, or something like that. And when I came back to myself I could hear her laughing – in my head. And then Glori did something – she told me today that it was him – and he shut her out. He didn’t want to talk about it later. She wants to train me. At least, that’s what she seemed to be saying today,” he finished.  
  
He would have been horrified to know how young he looked and sounded.  
  
“Who?” Gil-galad was staring at him blankly, trying to keep up and failing.  
  
“Who….? Oh, your aunt Galadriel. Sorry.”  
  
Gil-galad spluttered on a mouthful of wine. “You tried to play mind games with Galadriel?”  
  
“No, no, it wasn’t deliberate. I have no idea what I did. It’s never happened before.”  
  
Gil-galad compressed his lips, mentally shut out the crowd around them and extended his full attention to Elrond, whose disquiet was patent. He spoke slowly, picking his words with care. “These skills tend to belong to those born over the Sea, or to the Eldest, who first saw life beside Cuiviénen, but in your case I think this might be your heritage from Melian. If you want advice in dealing with it, I’ll help you find someone suitable to talk to. If not, let it be. There are no rules.”  
  
There were rules, of course, but not for his cousin, he decided. The twins had been raised by those who were not their kin, and the advice and training that should have come from Dior’s daughter had been lost to them. Gil-galad considered who he could trust to talk to Elrond about such matters. It was a short list. Elrond’s voice broke into his thoughts.  
  
“Oh, I see what you mean. Yes, well he certainly looks different”  
  
He followed Elrond’s gaze to Glorfindel, who had paused to speak to Dalbros. Normally unobtrusive in his style of dress, tonight he outshone the Half-elf, who had settled for silver-grey trimmed with black and the moonstones that had been Lúthien’s gift to Dior. Glorfindel wore iridescent shades of green and rather a lot of gold jewellery. His golden hair was braided and knotted and had strands of little green stones woven through it. Even more unusual was his demeanour. He was in the midst of what appeared to be a fairly high-spirited exchange with Dalbros and Erestor. Elrond and Gil-galad exchanged glances.  
  
“I noticed earlier that he seems to have remembered you gave him permission to raid the Treasury if he needed jewellery,” Elrond said, amused and still rather impressed.  
  
“He’s been strange since he woke me this morning,” Gil-galad volunteered. “He more or less ordered me to start confiding in him. Something about us being more open with each other…”  
  
“Nothing wrong with that.”  
  
“No, no, I suppose not. Just – very unlike him.”  
  
Glorfindel became aware of their attention and disengaged smilingly from Dalbros after a few words to Erestor. His first action on joining them was to eye Gil-galad’s wine cup suspiciously.  
  
“Twice watered,” Elrond told him in a voice that suggested it was all his work.  
  
“What’s this about Galadriel?” Gil-galad asked bluntly.  
  
Glorfindel raised a golden brow in Elrond’s direction, surprised that he had mentioned the night’s occurrence. “Oh, she was just being herself, I’m afraid,” he said, shrugging. “She’s harmless really – .”  
  
Gil-galad snorted. “She wants to train his mind skills. I think Elrond needs to find someone a bit more reliable - she’ll be off wandering east or south or some such once the babe’s born, looking for something new to meddle with.” Unless the child’s a boy, he added to himself.  
  
“I don’t want to learn about all that. I want to be a healer,” Elrond said in a low voice. One of his assistants chose that moment to come and whisper to Gil-galad that the Hall was in readiness for the next stage of the festivities. He paused, then held up a hand, asking for a few more minutes, and turned back to his cousin.  
  
“Yes, but you must learn to manage this, too,” he said, gently but firmly. “You can’t go around accidentally invading people’s minds. No reason you can’t do both, of course. If you’re serious this time about healing, come and talk to me tomorrow and I’ll see what I can arrange. As for the other…I’ll speak to Galadriel. I won’t allow her to make demands on you, but you and I will need to agree on someone else who can guide you instead.”  
  
“Can’t you teach me, Glori? She seemed impressed by whatever it was you did.”  
  
Glorfindel sipped his wine and shook his head. “ I can’t teach you,” he said seriously. “It’s a bit like singing. Most Elves sing for pleasure, some of us are very good, but only a few actually train as singers. Like everyone I grew up with I had the potential, but I never showed much talent for abilities like farspeech. Since…since my return I seem able to do things that were closed to me before. Even so, I remain untrained. Which means I can’t train you.” He looked off into the darkness for a moment and then his face cleared. “But I know who can. Leave it for tonight, let me talk with Gil and I’ll tell you my idea later.”  
  
Elrond caught Gil-galad’s eye as he was about to lead the way back inside for dancing and song. “You’re right,” he muttered. “Very strange. But in a good way.”


	16. Chapter 16

The half light of early morning had entered the room and was slowly dissipating the night’s shadows and the birds had long since begun their dawn chorus, when Glorfindel woke to the sensation of moist lips tracing a path across his naked shoulder. He was lying on his side, his back to Gil-galad’s warmth, and the King was wide awake. He deduced this not only from the lingering kisses being applied to his bare skin but also from the strong hand stroking his side, pausing at his waist on each pass to gently finger the soft skin there.   
  
Glorfindel yawned and rolled over onto his back and reached up a hand to draw Gil down for a lazy good morning kiss. He slid his other arm round him and lay savouring the feeling of thick, heavy hair slipping through his fingers and hard muscle rippling under his palm. Dark, wavy hair with a most un-Elven tendency towards disorder fell around him like a curtain as Gil bent to find his lips. As the kiss ended, Glorfindel smiled up in sleepy amusement and gently brushed the dark tangle back, before resting his hand against Gil’s cheek in an unconscious caress.  
  
“Such a beautiful mess. I’ll brush it out for you later. You’re awake early…is there something you want?”  
  
Gil-galad chuckled softly, sliding strong arms round Glorfindel and pulling him onto his side and into a hug that moulded their bodies together. “There was something I had in mind, yes,” he agreed, stroking golden hair out of the way so that he could suck teasingly at an earlobe before exploring the ear with the tip of his tongue. The effect, which should have been erotic, was rather spoilt by his efforts a few moments later to get rid of a mouthful of hair.  
  
Laughing, Glorfindel shifted lazily against him, desire taking precedence over any thought of going back to sleep. “Give me a little time to wake up first,” he yawned, pressing closer and twining a leg around the King so that he could reach to rub the sensitive spot at the back of Gil’s knee with his foot. This never failed to get a response from his lover, and this morning was no different. An indrawn breath was followed by a low moan as Gil buried his face in Glorfindel’s neck and held him closer. They lay, touching and stroking one another, moving against each other with growing pressure and urgency.   
  
Eventually Gil drew back and said huskily, “Turn over.”  
  
Glorfindel lay shivering under the touch of strong hands that ghosted smoothly over his shoulders and rib cage, down to his waist and below. Gil, kneeling over him, brought his thumbs together to press firmly in the small of his back, causing waves of pleasure to radiate from the well-chosen spot. Then, moving those thumbs in small, firm, circles that raised tingling pulses of heat, he worked his way over Glorfindel’s buttocks and down to his cleft. Light fingertips explored the sensitive skin before his hands retraced their path, returning to the blonde Elf’s shoulders.   
  
He leaned forward till he was lying almost flat, their bodies pressed together from shoulder to toe, his heavy erection nestled between Glorfindel’s cheeks. His right hand travelled slowly down his lover’s arm till their hands met and fingers entwined and then he drew Glorfindel over onto his side, into the curve of his left arm, so that their bodies spooned together in much the same position as when they had woken.   
  
Freeing his hand, he trailed it down Glorfindel’s thigh with a touch so light it raised gooseflesh in its wake, tugging gently to indicate he should draw up his knee. Then he rested the hand on one firm cheek, spreading him open before pushing gently forward and entering him. Glorfindel gasped and pushed back instinctively against Gil, who slid smoothly up into him, filling him and making him hiss sharply, more from surprise than discomfort. Gil, on a panting groan, leaned over him to place a kiss near his ear before asking breathlessly, “You all right?”   
  
Glorfindel gave a shaky laugh, edgy with excitement. “What happened to slow, gentle and careful? It’s all right, go on, deeper.”  
  
“You sure? Sorry – I’m rushing this. You wanted time to wake up…”   
  
“I’m awake. Stop talking and do it. I love to feel you inside me.”  
  
“All right, sweetheart, all right.” The words were punctuated with lingering kisses along the side of his face and neck. “Don’t be in such a hurry. Should I get some oil…?”  
  
Glorfindel pushed back against him insistently and said, “When you’re quite finished talking, do you think you could please shut up and fuck me?”  
  
“Did you just tell me to shut up and fuck you?” Gil asked on a warm gust of laughter, grinning as he kissed Glorfindel’s cheek through soft fair hair. The golden head dropped back against his shoulder and he saw a flash of blue eyes.  
  
“That would be right, yes,” Glorfindel said on an indrawn breath as Gil punctuated the sentence by pushing deeper into him. “Good and hard. Please.”   
  
“What, like this?” Gil asked with laughter in his voice, demonstrating. “Was this what you wanted?” A deeper thrust struck Glorfindel’s sweet spot and caused him to claw at the sheet, curse and jerk back urgently.   
  
“I can get on with this, yes,” Gil agreed breathily, moving his hand to clasp Glorfindel’s hip firmly. “Good and hard, I think you said? I can do that, yes.” Starting slowly he proceeded to oblige, driving into Glorfindel with ever-increasing force and speed.   
  
At a point where he was sobbing for breath and blind to almost everything save the heat coursing through him and Gil pounding into him, Glorfindel moved onto his stomach, dragging Gil over with him in a scramble of limbs and whispered endearments and obscenities, then drew his knees under him, taking his weight on his forearms, lifting and pushing back into each stroke on a series of low, needful growls.   
  
Gil, reaching blindly beneath them, found Glorfindel’s sex and wrapped his hand around it tightly. He needed do no more than hold him, as the motion of their bodies was more than enough to supply the friction that brought Glorfindel to climax within minutes, carried finally over the edge by the sensation of Gil’s mouth fastening onto his neck, hard, moments before his seed covered Gil’s hand and the bed.   
  
Kneeling almost upright now, Gil slowed his movements, savouring the contracting muscles clenching around his cock as he pushed slowly deep into the tightness, drawing back, driving in, both hands grasping Glorfindel’s hips. At last he thrust in as deeply as he was able and held still, not breathing, his eyes closed, his fingers gripping painfully, as the first wave of ecstasy swept through him. Moving again, he gave a dozen more hard, panting thrusts before he finally collapsed over Glorfindel, spent.   
  
They lay still, breathing heavily, then slowly Gil drew back and out and Glorfindel turned almost as part of the same motion and came into his embrace. He wrapped his arms round Gil and held onto him, kissing his sweat-filmed neck and cheek and murmuring indistinct words of pleasure and thanks. And so they lay, intertwined and pressed together almost as though seeking comfort. Finally Gil-galad drew back a little to look at the flushed face with the kiss-swollen lips and half-closed blue eyes.  
  
“You do this better than anyone else I’ve ever been with. Or heard talk of.” He was quiet for a minute and they stared at one another. “That was the wrong thing to say, wasn’t it?”  
  
Glorfindel gave up his attempt to look insulted at this reference to past lovers, and flashed Gil an affectionate smile. “Completely wrong,” he agreed. “But I liked it anyway.”

~~~~

“Círdan,” Elros said blankly. “Círdan? But you’re not even upset?”  
  
Elrond shrugged. Clad only in a night robe, he was sitting cross-legged on his brother’s bed, the lightly woven, colourful blanket he had found there wrapped around his shoulders. It was early morning, but this had become the only part of the day when he could be certain that Elros would have time to listen. Laslech lay in the doorway, watching. Elros’ bedroom was forbidden territory.  
  
“I can manage Círdan. You just have to look him in the eye and speak your mind. He isn’t used to that, it stops him in his tracks. Usually.” He dismissed his twin’s disbelieving stare with a gesture. “Glori’s explanation made sense. Círdan won’t push me to do things just to see if I can. He’s not – intense like Galadriel. And Ereinion said he could ask him to stop telling me how to behave, too.”   
  
Drawing his knees up and wrapping his arms round them, he leaned forward, his voice becoming even more animated. “And in a few years I might go and spend some time studying with Gildor. That should be interesting. Erestor’s met him a few times, did I tell you? Ereinion wasn’t clear about what he’d teach me – he said something about self discipline. He would say that, of course.”   
  
“Bit of self discipline couldn’t hurt,” his brother said a little caustically, getting out of bed and going to open the drapes. He took a look at the slate grey sky, pulled a face and went back to spend a last few minutes within the warmth of the bedcovers.   
  
Apparently Elrond was experiencing one of his periodic enthusiasms, which Elros usually found exhausting. He was unsure whether to be relieved or saddened that these occurred with less frequency as they grew older, a result of regular disillusion and regret. Dragging back a share of the blankets, he wrapped them round himself as best he could and attempted to restore some balance.  
  
“You know, if anyone else had suggested this you would be throwing a tantrum. Glorfindel opens his mouth and you act as though he speaks eternal truth…”  
  
“Oh Ros, that’s not fair. I listened because he was right, that’s all. I don’t have to like Círdan, he doesn’t have to like me, we just have to be polite. He has to teach and I have to learn.”  
  
Elros gave him a level, expressionless look and tried a different approach. “Have you discussed it with Erestor?” he asked.  
  
“Why would I do that?” Frowning, grey eyes narrowing.  
  
“Oh, I don’t know, just to see what he thinks. You say he’s lived quite a varied life, he should have an opinion of sorts – and it might be less biased.”  
  
“Biased?”  
  
“Gil usually agrees with Glorfindel, it’s becoming a habit. I’m sorry, Ro, but Glorfindel’s indulging in a bit of Aman logic. They look at things differently to us, and you know it. What worries me most is that I won’t be here to help soon, and you seen to think he can do no wrong…”   
  
It was not meant to sound bitter, but it did. Elrond had looked to his calmer, more reasoned brother for advice and guidance for most of their lives and while Elros had felt no discomfort when his twin had finally begun accepting Gil-galad, who was a relative as well as High King, as an authority, the newly-arrived Glorfindel was another matter.   
  
Elrond studied his brother thoughtfully. The slight edge had been there before at mention of Glorfindel. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Laslech half rise and edge forward a little, bringing herself wholly into the room but far enough from the bed not to invite attention. Elros felt dogs had no place in the bedroom and seemed to believe she slept in the little hallway that led through to the main body of the Palace as he had intended when he had first been given her. This arrangement had lasted no more than a few hours because, remembering too many confusing, frightening nights surrounded by strangers, Elrond had fetched her to his room where she had slept ever since, on a rug in the corner.   
  
He leaned forward bonelessly to relax against his brother’s legs and reached over to pull the covers clear of Elros’ face so that they could look at one another clearly.  
  
“What possible reason could you have to not like Glori?”  
  
Elros sat up against the headboard, pushing braids impatiently behind his ears. “I don’t dislike him, Ro. I’ve not spent much time with him, but he’s pleasant enough when you can get him to talk. The problem is, you seem to think him incapable of making mistakes and I doubt he knows you nearly well enough to be making life altering choices for you.”  
  
Elrond gave him a puzzled look. “Glori makes mistakes, lots of them. He’s sleeping with Ereinion – there’s nothing smart about that. But I trust him. He’s honest, and when he gives advice it’s good.”  
  
“I just don’t want you to agree blindly to every suggestion he makes, that’s all. We might be able to write occasionally, but I will be too far away to give advice. You have to start sorting things out yourself, not just find someone else to ask for help.”  
  
Elrond sat up, finally annoyed. Laslech, sensing his mood, sidled a little closer. Her tail started to wag by reflex but she stilled it, very aware that she had crossed the invisible line into the forbidden. “Then do you have a better suggestion? If I have this …this power, then I need to be able to contain it. Who would you suggest in place of Círdan?”  
  
Elros frowned, his forehead crinkling. His skin was no longer as smooth as it had once been but, to Elrond’s mind, this simply gave him character. “I don’t know. Why do you have to be ‘trained’? I never heard of that before – you just grow into it naturally, surely?”  
  
“Of course not, not things like farspeech and the like,” Elrond shot back at him. “You just don’t hear much about it because Elves born since the Return can’t usually do such things. Of course, we have to be different. Like Maedhros used to say when I upset him – we’re mongrels, totally unlike anyone else.”   
  
He relaxed back onto the bed, smiling to himself at some memory. “And I don’t want to sort it out myself. If you don’t have a better idea, I’ll just have to put up with Círdan’s disapproval. I have no wish to find myself inside Galadriel’s head again.”  
  
“Out of here, now. Right now!” Elros suddenly yelled, sitting up and swinging his arm to point at the door. Elrond started, then realised this was directed at Laslech, who had crept right up to the bed while they were talking. Knowing she had broken one of the primary rules in her world, she got up immediately and trotted out of the room, stopping at a point well beyond the doorway, but where she could still keep Elrond in view.   
  
He compressed his lips slightly and glanced at Elros out of the corner of his eye, but his brother was already settling back down and there was little point in saying anything. He had no wish to mar their last few days or weeks with arguments. He guiltily pushed back his concern about how the dog would fare in her new home. She was a dog; he should be worrying about his brother.   
  
“Well, she knows not to come into the bedrooms,” Elros pointed out in what he felt was a reasonable tone but which sounded suspiciously like a justification. Elrond nodded wordlessly. He thought it best not to mention that not only did she sleep in his room, but that she was also in fact allowed to get on his bed in the morning to say hello.

~~~~

Around mid morning Gil-galad was informed that his aunt had arrived in the Palace as requested and was waiting to see him. The fire in his sitting room had been lit early to fend off the encroaching winter gloom, and upon entering he was unsurprised to find Galadriel standing before it, still wrapped against the outdoor chill in a voluminous, fur trimmed cloak. Despite their kind’s natural resistance to extremes in temperature, every Elf he had ever met who had crossed the Helcaraxë disliked being cold. Glorfindel, whose skin seemed always warm to the touch, was no exception.  
  
“You wished to see me, Ereinion?”  
  
Galadriel only addressed him formally in public or in the presence of outsiders. Normally this was something he liked, as it gave him a comfortable sense of family, but today it grated.  
  
“I thought we should discuss Elrond,” he told her without preamble. Well, he saw no need for the small talk, which she professed to despise. He had seen her the previous night; her health was always excellent, if something had befallen her mate he would have been told, and she would not have come if all had not been well with the babe – his heir if male, though instinct told him this was a girl-child.   
  
She inclined her head. “Elrond and I have talked, yes. He tells me he wants to be a healer.” She said it in an amused voice, as though quoting the wishes of a child who would know better with age. Gil-galad frowned at her.   
  
‘Yes, he’s been interested in that for some time. I’m arranging for him to have some training, see if he takes to it.”  
  
She raised a fine, exquisitely shaped eyebrow, then shrugged gracefully. “As you wish. He has skill there, I sense. It can do no harm.”  
  
“As for the other things you want him to learn….”  
  
“Ah.”   
  
He had her attention; this was what she had come to discuss. Well, he though, she might not like what she was about to hear. Gil-galad understood his aunt better than most. Royal, ambitious; if she could not rule, she would mould. And as he was not open to her guidance – Círdan had been enough – he suspected she had been looking around for other work to turn her hand to. She reminded him of his father, never still, always busy with some project. The final one had led to the destruction of Nargothrond.  
  
“Elrond’s young, his heritage is – unusual, and I feel this needs to be managed carefully,” he said. She was staring into the fire, standing very still. He went and sat on the arm of a nearby chair, trying discreetly to remind her of the difference in their rank even though he felt uncomfortable seated while she remained standing.   
  
“I discussed it with Glorfindel, and we’re agreed that Círdan would be the best choice. His skills differ to those developed in the West, and this should make him more flexible, more aware that there are different paths that can be followed. As Elrond’s gifts are likely to be his legacy from Melian, this will be invaluable.”  
  
He paused, then decided he might as well tell her the rest, hoping that the inclusion of another family member would mollify the growing outrage he saw on her face. “Later I think he should spend some time with Gildor – the mind and body disciplines he teaches might have future value and he has no political objectives. There’s no rush. When Elrond feels ready it will be time enough. And right now he is far from ready.”   
  
“Gildor?” she asked flatly. “Gildor Inglorion? That gypsy?”  
  
“The same,” he agreed equably, inwardly flinching from the gathering storm he sensed was about to break about him.  
  
“But that is absurd!” she exclaimed, swinging round to glare at him, her eyes blazing. “And as for Círdan – I can hardly believe Glorfindel would be so irresponsible. I offer no disrespect to the abilities of one who woke here in the time before the Summons, but Elrond’s potential is too varied, too vast to be left to someone who has not studied these matters. As you suggest, his power is not wholly Elven… No, Ereinion, absolutely not. I studied with Melian; these are things no one is better qualified to teach him than me.”   
  
Gil-galad shook his head firmly. “I don’t question the need for training, but in the absence of one of the Maia, I believe Círdan is the best choice to guide him. All else aside, he can be relied on not to encourage Elrond to fly too high, too soon – something I am not convinced you would be able to resist, to be honest.”  
  
He was not about to admit that he saw her point, that when Glorfindel had suggested all this he had been more than a little dubious. He had been as much startled as surprised when Elrond had agreed, and had uneasily wondered what the response would have been had anyone else put forward the idea. He rose and went over to her, making his tone conciliatory.  
  
“I’m sure it wasn’t intentional, aunt, but he had no grounding in these matters from Maglor, and your approach unsettled him badly. In any event, it’s out of your hands now. Elrond is my responsibility, and I’ll decide as I think best for him.”  
  
Galadriel stood silent, her head tilted to one side as though listening to something. Gil-galad suddenly become aware of a coolness in the room, a sense of power moving through the stillness, and waited. He lacked many of the more common Elven gifts, but in their place had something of inestimable value – he could perceive power and energy being manipulated and bent to the will of others, yet it could hold no sway over him. He had walked through dark shadows that would have cowed or ensnared another Elf and had remained unscathed. This, however, was less perilous; Galadriel had the gift of farsight, and he waited with interest to discover what she saw.  
  
“He remains your responsibility for a time only, son of my brother,” she said quietly, turning to him, her strange, sea-hued eyes looking into a time and place closed to him. “The destiny of the Peredhel will remain your concern for your lifespan, but when the time comes for Eärendil’s son to fulfill his destiny, he will stand alone. He will need wisdom and strength far beyond your imaginings when that time arrives.”  
  
Gil-galad felt a rush of heat spread out from the pit of his stomach, though his skin felt like ice. Galadriel was speaking from some place between worlds, and he knew he could hardly blame her for simply telling him what she saw. Even if that appeared to relate to his death, the only logical explanation for his absence in Elrond’s future. Keeping his voice very even, therefore, he said softly, “Even so, aunt, at this time responsibility for Elrond’s training remains my concern, not yours. This is my final word, and in my Palace, in my kingdom, that is sufficient.”  
  
Galadriel came back abruptly from the place her thoughts had walked, concern and distress beginning to form on her face. She reached out an instinctive hand to him, no longer the prophetess, once more his aunt.  
  
“Ereinion, I’m sorry, the words were ill-chosen. I often see things without understanding their context. This was simply one of those times…”  
  
He took her hand and brought it lightly to his lips, shaking his head and forcing an easy smile. “Things happen as they will. Don’t worry, I won’t live my life in fear of words or pictures seen in the depths of my hearth fire, any more than I can allow them to decide Elrond’s future.”  
  
Galadriel wrapped her arms around him, holding him close to her, shivering slightly. She was tall, almost Glorfindel’s height, he realised. He returned the hug reflexively, and was almost amused to find he seemed to be the one offering comfort. He stepped back after a minute and put his hands on her shoulders and looked down into her worried face.  
  
“You may have seen and spoken clearly, but I choose to believe this is something that will prove to have a less dark explanation. Put it from your mind, for the babe’s sake if for no other reason. This is not a time for you to worry unnecessarily.”  
  
She nodded slowly, her face still troubled. “Whatever I saw, it was in a time and place far from here,” she confirmed. “And your absence may have been due to any one of a number of reasons. Ereinion, no matter how strong our disagreements, we remain family. Be certain I would never ill wish you…”  
  
He shook his head. “No aunt, I know that,” he reassured her, giving her shoulders an affectionate squeeze before releasing her. “And I’m sorry about Elrond, but I really think this will be the best way forward for him.”  
  
Bidding her enjoy the warmth of his rooms, and adding an invitation for her to share the midday meal with him, he took his leave of her. Just before he closed the door, he saw her draw the cloak close about her and rest a hand on her belly as though seeking comfort from the child within.

~~~~

He wandered through the Palace after leaving Galadriel, trying to order his thoughts, and was on the final flight of steps leading up to the roof before he again took note of his surroundings. He seldom visited the area above the Healers’ rooms where, on warm days, patients were encouraged to spend time sitting in the sun in a sheltered corner which had been outfitted with benches for this purpose. It was one of Glorfindel’s favourite spots of late, and right now it seemed as good a choice as any.   
  
He stepped out onto the roof and almost immediately saw sunlight glinting on golden hair. For a disoriented moment he thought it was Galadriel, but then realised he had found the other golden blonde in the Palace, Glorfindel.   
  
He was leaning against a buttress and staring out over the farmlands, the wind tugging at his clothes. Gil-galad walked up behind him and slid his arms round his waist, resting his cheek against the warrior’s hair. Glorfindel covered a hand with his own and leaned back lightly against him. Gil-galad dropped his head slightly so that his chin rested on a powerful shoulder.   
  
“I never had someone to hold onto before,” he said with a half-bemused smile.  
  
“Something’s wrong?” Glorfindel asked, his light, clear voice warm and concerned.  
  
“Uh-uh.”   
  
There seemed no point in mentioning it. If death came, it came. He had been a soldier for most of his life, he had, unlike the majority of his kind, long since come to terms with the possibility. No need to concern those close to him. Perhaps he would share Galadriel’s words one day, but not today, not until he could treat them as no more than a reminder not to waste the time he was given. Instead he stood holding Glorfindel in silence, idly watching people moving far below while the wind whistled around them and the clouds scudded across the sun and the never-ending voice of the ocean rose and fell in the background.   
  
Finally he drew Glorfindel round to face him, holding him by the hips while the warrior’s hands moved automatically to rest on his shoulders. “What could be wrong? I’m with you - the best place in all the world,” he said, speaking more seriously than he had intended.  
  
Glorfindel reached up to stroke Gil’s face lightly before taking it gently between his hands and looking searchingly into his eyes. “You won’t tell me what troubles you?” he asked, his tone disappointed.  
  
Gil-galad hesitated momentarily then shook his head. “No, it’s nothing. I spoke with Galadriel as I said I would, and she has a way of making you doubt yourself, question your future…”  
  
“Let go of the doubt,” Glorfindel told him, his voice close and intimate. “I will not let you doubt yourself. Trust me,” he added, laughter in his eyes as he leaned forward and kissed Gil softly on the lips, “I am even quicker than doubt.”   
  
Gil-galad laughed with him, and slid his arms around his lover, drawing him close. Bending, he claimed the sweetly curved mouth in a slow, deep kiss, putting Galadriel’s hints of a foreshortened future into a quiet corner of his mind where they would stay unless or until a day came when they would have relevance.


	17. Chapter 17

_The palace at Lindon, the building of which had begun at the end of the War of Wrath when it finally became possible for a King to live in security on the mainland once more, sat upon a promontory overlooking the Gulf of Lhûn, its pale rose granite walls glowing softly under both sun and moonlight. The land upon which it was built stood elevated above the shoreline, the grounds ending abruptly in a sharp drop down to the rocks below. It was not a single structure but an interconnected group of buildings making up a sprawling, many-faceted complex.  
  
The stables, as well as the barracks housing the core companies of Gil-galad’s substantial army, were on the east side of the complex, where the land sloped down to sea level, giving access to a narrow beach, while on the opposite side there was a small, busy harbour that provided fish and trading goods for the fast-growing town that had sprung up in this area of implied safety.  
  
Mithlond, Círdan’s haven, the closely guarded anchorage where the ships that carried the Eldar into the West were built and maintained, lay some distance to the east at the mouth of the Lhûn, whilst across the bay was Harlond, the main trading port of Harlindon. The great, deepwater harbour at Forlond lay within sight of the open sea, more than a day’s ride from the palace on the recently constructed road that followed the coast down from Mithlond. Here, under the protection of Elven warriors, ships were being built that would carry the Second born Elven allies of Arda to their newly created haven on the island of Númenor._

~~~~

“How would you like to take a ride up the coast to Forlond?  
  
“Forlond? The port?” Glorfindel didn’t turn his head as he spoke, his eyes remaining on the quartet of attractive, brightly-clad dancers who were whirling in intricate patterns, their movements blending seamlessly with the accompanying music of drum and flute.  
  
The evening meal was long past and the central courtyard of the palace had undergone its regular transformation into a gathering place for conversation, music and song. Tonight, dancers from the south were entertaining the palace residents, accompanied by their own small troupe of musicians. They were dressed in flowing layers of multi-coloured clothing made from a filmy material and were draped in jewellery which caught the light enticingly with every move.  
  
Glorfindel was sitting on a low wall on the Hall side of the courtyard, a spot which was usually the King’s preferred vantage point when he had time to join the evening’s festivities. Gil-galad nodded as he joined him, giving the blonde’s shoulder a quick shake to wrest his attention away from the dancers.  
  
“It’s a little over a day’s slow ride down the coast. Nice scenery, an overnight stop under the stars as becomes elves, pleasant company…”  
  
Glorfindel slanted him a glance under dark gold lashes. “And?” he asked. Gil-galad raised an eyebrow, which was met with a disbelieving smile. “No, I know you. You don’t go for pleasure trips down the coast. Why would we be going to Forlond?”  
  
Gil-galad sighed softly, his face growing serious. “Because I have business there and I would enjoy your company on the road.”  
  
Glorfindel turned and studied him for a moment and then nodded. “The ships for Númenor are being built there. It’s time, isn’t it?”  
  
The dark head nodded slowly. “Yes, it’s time. I told Elros earlier. I wanted to see the two of them together, but Elrond was nowhere about and Elros seemed disinclined to wait till I found him.”  
  
His companion gestured wordlessly over to where a small knot of young Elves sat. They were in shadow, but once he turned his attention to them, Gil-galad could see that the group included Elrond who was sitting close to a slender, black haired Elf he recognised after a moment as Erestor. The dog was with them, sitting up straight and apparently watching the dancers in the cleared, torchlit area off to the side. Glorfindel and Gil-galad exchanged glances. “Should I call him for you?” the blonde asked, making as though to rise. The King put a hand lightly on his arm, halting him.  
  
“Let it be. I think Elros wanted to tell him personally.”  
  
Glorfindel, knowing the full tale behind the choice that would take Elros over the sea and out of their lives forever, wondered if he simply preferred to give his twin the news in private, without having to pick his words. For a moment it was on his lips to share what he knew with Gil-galad, even though there would be no help he could offer at this late stage, but the story had been shared in confidence. He hoped that one day Elrond would see fit to tell his cousin. After much thought, he was beginning to agree with him and with Galadriel that blind faith in the Valar and their messenger might be less than wise.  
  
Gil-galad took advantage of the surrounding shadows to lean against Glorfindel in a manner that he hoped would appear to any observers as nothing more than innocently affectionate, and interrupted his musings by asking, “So…would you be interested in joining us? I need to be present as a mark of friendship to the travellers, and on a personal level I want to wish Elros well. I thought you might like the chance to see something of Lindon beyond the town and its surrounds. Perhaps you can persuade Eönwë to tell you the direction your life should take.”  
  
Glorfindel flashed him an intimate look and, smiling softly, returned the pressure, his fingers briefly stroking Gil-galad’s wrist. “From what I’ve heard, I very much doubt that,” he told the King, remembering Galadriel’s words. “But I would like to wish Elros well and see the fleet sail. And I would be happy to go with you anywhere.”

~~~~

It was the day before he was due to leave, and Elros walked slowly through the palace grounds, eating a peach he had picked up as he passed through the kitchens. He had no idea if there would be peaches in Númenor, his future home, but he was certain they would never taste quite as good as these last fruits of Lindon’s summer. He had been wandering the palace and grounds for hours, alone with his thoughts. Each time he spotted someone he knew he changed direction, seeking solitude. He was saying goodbye to the only settled home he had known since childhood.  
  
At the end of the War they had come to live in the unprepossessing Hall that Gil-galad then proceeded to transform into a palace that was unlike the seat of any Noldor King before him. From the start Elros had been the anomaly, the Half-elf who was more Man than Elf and who would one day leave to join the Secondborn, to rule a land being created as a gift for people who were strangers to him, yet over whom he would be King. From the beginning his days had been filled, at the insistence of the Herald, with leaning lore and ethics and the skills of a ruler. He was an obedient, attentive student, unlike his brother whose concentration at times mirrored that of a kitten, moving swiftly from one bright, shiny distraction to another. However, the choice had been his, not Elrond’s, and he did his best to fit himself to fill the role he had taken upon himself.  
  
He had tutors, he had advisors, he had Círdan talking to him about responsibility and duty and occasionally seamanship, he had lessons in the arts, in languages. He studied history, and the various forms of government that Men had so far devised, and he was drilled in the laws which had been decided upon for the Men of Númenor by the Valar themselves.  
  
He learned a little more about sword craft, although nowhere near as much as Elrond. Although Maedhros himself had said he showed promise, he was not going to be that kind of King, sword-bearing, armour clad, riding against the enemies of his people. He was being trained to be an administrator, not a hero.  
  
After a time, Gil-galad had turned his attention to the regime decided upon by Eönwë, and had found it wanting. He went through the order of lessons personally, shook his head, and marked in times during which Elros would take a break so that they could go riding or hunting, and weekly sessions during which they would discuss Elros’ progress.  
  
These sessions in fact turned out to be afternoons given over to casual conversation about what he had learned and how he would apply it to whatever problem the King currently faced. As far as possible, Gil-galad took the theory of the week’s lessons and helped him put it into practice, making it come alive. To begin with Elros’ choices were uncertain, but his errors were brought to his attention with humour and courtesy, and he soon developed a style that was all his own.  
  
Gil-galad’s other intervention was in a matter that neither the Herald nor Círdan had considered. Occasionally at first, then with growing regularity, he had Men visit Lindon specifically to meet and get to know their future king. After a few years, he arranged for Elros to spend a few months of each year visiting his former guests, getting used to the likes, dislikes, norms and values of those over whom he would rule. Elros knew Eönwë was less than content with this, but until the ship sailed he was under Gil-galad’s authority and could safely leave the Maiar’s displeasure to him. It was a secure choice. For no discernable reason, Gil-galad detested Eönwë.  
  
As the years passed, Elros was expected to visit Forlond regularly, ostensibly to keep abreast of the progress being made with the fleet but, more importantly, to meet with and be assessed by the Herald. These were uncomfortable meetings for Elros, with a being who would always remind him of the strange pavilion on the beach and the day life had changed irrevocably. He was polite to the messenger of the Shining Ones, no more, and nothing more was expected of him. His job was to go to Númenor, rule, produce an heir, grow old and die. So long as he did these things efficiently and in the correct order, all was well with Eönwë.  
  
He had lived these years as neither one thing nor another, avoided for the most part by the Elves who sought out his brother, who was the King’s default heir and, as such, desirable company. He, on the other hand, was regarded as a being of mystery amongst those with whom he instinctively identified, set apart by the training he was receiving and the months he spent with Ilúvatar’s younger children who, for their part, regarded him primarily as an Elf, and far from being one of them.  
  
He often resented the studies that left no time to try and prove to others that he was as Elven in his ways as his brother, but he learned to be grateful to Gil-galad for insisting he spend sufficient time amongst Men to be able to speak their common tongue with the barest of accents and to have a good grasp of the rules that applied at the dinner table and at social gatherings. Without this grounding he acknowledged now that he would have been lost even before he reached Númenor.  
  
His wanderings had led him to the little ornamental lake near the guest houses on the town side of the palace. Normally he preferred the small harbour which was used mainly for fishing, trade and sea transport between the coastal towns, but he would soon be seeing enough of the ocean. Right now he wanted to look at calm order, preferably with an Elven flair to it. He had always liked the lake. He and Gil-galad often came here to talk, to the extent that they had a favourite spot, a bench situated under a well-established willow tree.  
  
He would miss his cousin. Far more than Elrond could, Gil-galad understood what he faced and did as much as possible to prepare him. He preferred not to think about missing his brother. When he finally told him that the time had arrived, Elrond had sat looking at him out of still, dark eyes, that uncontrollable hair falling over his face, one hand reaching halfway towards him before it was withdrawn. They had an unspoken agreement that there would be no sentiment, that they would do what had to be done, but for a moment he had a sense of how empty his life would be without this quicksilver presence, so like him yet so utterly opposite.  
  
He looked out over the lake, trying to fix the memory of it in his mind, as he had found himself doing all day with favourite people and places, while in the back of his mind he heard the cool, emotionless voice telling him of the perfected land that was being prepared, a place of security and beauty, far superior to anything to be found on this shore, and he found his eyes were blurring with unwelcome tears, despite his promise to himself that there would be no more.  
  
He was so wrapped in his thoughts that he failed to hear the light footfalls on the grass and the first he was aware of not being alone was when she sat down on the bench beside him. Galadriel was dressed in pale blue, a light cloak around her shoulders although the weather was warmer than it had been for some days. Her exquisite hair was bound back from her face for once, held in a net studded with tiny sapphires.  
  
“You treat this upheaval with a grace that brings your foremother to mind,” she said quietly. “I saw you walking and thought you might feel the need for company for a short time. I will not ply you with needless questions or empty platitudes, I promise.”  
  
He opened his mouth to respond but she shook her head and settled back on the bench, her hands resting lightly on her belly. They sat in silence for a while, and then she reached over and took his hand and held it firmly in hers and he knew she knew. He turned to her, unshed tears standing in his grey eyes and said softly, “I don’t want to leave home, Lady, I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to die.”  
  
She nodded calmly. “Of course not,” she agreed. “The Gift is a matter of violence and horror to us and we fear and avoid it, even though we know that we will almost certainly be reborn eventually in Aman. However, your new kindred measure time very differently to us, and the Gift is the reward the One sends them at the end, when the body is tired and worn and all labours are complete. For you, age will come slowly and with dignity, and eventually you will know when it is time to leave.”  
  
He found he was holding onto her hand like a child listening to a tale of magic and, childlike, he softly asked the question he had never before dared speak aloud.  
  
“Does it hurt?”  
  
She smiled and shook her head and reached over to touch his cheek. He wondered vaguely if she would notice that it was no longer as soft and smooth as Elven skin should be, but in her eyes was nothing but tenderness, an expression seen by few save her mate and closest kin. “At the last you will lie down and sleep and, sleeping, your féa will pass to the place where the inner selves of the Second born go. No pain, just a sense of rightness.”  
  
She rose and he followed, turning to face her. She took his face between her long, slender hands and, leaning forward, kissed him very gently on the forehead. “When that time comes at the last, remember today and think of Galadriel,” she said softly. “I will be waiting in the shadowplace between worlds to watch with you as you set out on that final journey. For now though, let go of fear, child. A long, full life lies ahead of you before then. Live it well.”  
  
And with a smile of infinite sweetness that Elros would carry in his heart as a wall against the darkness, Finarfin’s daughter turned in a swirl of soft blue and the scents of spring and left him to his thoughts.

~~~~

Elrond pulled Laslech down beside him under ‘his’ tree and settled close against the trunk, trying to find some protection from the wind which had returned in the early evening. The dog, seeing home directly ahead, made a few attempts to get up and go indoors in search of water and sheltering warmth, but eventually subsided and lay obediently beside him. Elrond sat running his fingers over her head and back, trying to keep his mind empty.  
  
While Elros had spent the day alone, prowling their home, locking up memories, Elrond had been left to his own devices. He had finally taken Laslech and gone down to the section of the beach that was regarded as an extension of the barracks training ground. Laslech loved the beach. She could run free, sticks were thrown – Elrond always remembered to collect a few along the way – and with luck there might be birds to chase too.  
  
They were soon interrupted, however, when a group of trainees came down and they were asked to leave. Glorfindel had been busy, Ereinion had passed him at some point with a comment about dogs and leads although he showed no inclination to enforce it, and Erestor was nowhere to be found.  
  
In the afternoon he took a decision he had been working his way around to for a while and, tracking down his twin said without prelude, “Ros, I know you have other things on your mind, but I need to talk to you about Laslech.”  
  
For a moment his twin looked blankly at him, then the name fell into place and he sighed and put on what Elrond had always thought of as his ‘listening’ expression, which usually meant he was doing anything but. He had kept quiet till now because a nameless discomfort told him that this conversation would fail to deliver the desired result, but he took a breath and pressed on regardless.  
  
“She was an odd choice for a gift, and I know that you have no time for a dog right now, and I’ve tried to look after her for you…”  
  
“Of course you have and I really am grateful even if I don’t usually say as much. I know you put a lot of time into trying to train her for me…”  
  
“Ros, can I keep her?” There, it was said.  
  
Elros stared at him blankly then shook his head briefly as though to clear it. “Elrond, I’m sorry, I know you’ve become fond of her, but I can’t,” he said finally. “She was a gift and those who chose her will travel with me. It will look as though I thought her not…good enough. I’m sorry, brother, there is no way that I can leave her behind. She will be well cared for, I promise. Very few Men would trust a king who neglected his dog, after all.”  
  
Elrond ignored the twist of the lip or the bleak look in his brother’s eyes. He was too busy swallowing back his instinctive response to having his request dismissed so casually. Succeeding, he nodded, shrugging off the plea as no more than a passing thought, and turned the conversation to what time Elros and his escort would be leaving.  
  
Laslech, who disliked the wind and had been cooperative for long enough, got up, shook herself thoroughly, and trotted across to the tiny patio and in through the half open door without a backward glance to see if her companion followed, leaving Elrond alone. He sat for a while pulling idly at the grass and thinking about nothing in particular. What he really wanted, needed, was to talk to Glorfindel, but the hour was late and he lacked the nerve to go so far as to disturb Gil-galad and what was probably passing between them. Finally, seeing no other option, he rose and followed his brother’s dog indoors.  
  
He went through to Elros’s room with some idea of saying goodnight and sharing any other thoughts that might follow, though there was really nothing left to say after all this time, but Elros was already in bed and no longer awake. After a moment, Elrond settled quietly at the end of the bed and, resting his chin on his drawn up knees, watched his brother lost in sleep after the manner of the Secondborn, eyes closed, lips parted. Presently he rose silently and went to fetch a cushion and Laslech’s blanket.  
  
Putting the blanket in the far corner of the room, he pointed her at it silently, then resumed his place at the end of the bed, where he sat and watched his brother’s face and waited for the dawn.


	18. Chapter 18

S.A. 32 - Lindon

Elros left at first light, wrapped in furs against the cold which affected him more than was natural for an Elf, a bag containing the dearest of his treasures slung over his shoulder. Standing in the doorway facing his twin, Elrond knew that he would never again see himself mirrored back from another face in this manner, that no one else shared the memories of the nightmare of their growing years, no one else would remember him as a child. Elros reached out a hand, eyes locked with his, and they shared the warrior’s greeting, two clasps of hand to forearm and a meeting of palms, as they had seen it offered while they were growing up in the Kinslayers’ camps. Elros pulled his brother in for a quick, unaccustomed embrace, and for a moment they clung as they had not done since childhood, then he stepped back, nodded, mouthed ‘I’ll write’ and was gone.

Elrond had no idea if there would be anyone to deliver the letters, but Elros’ faith in the generosity of others was similar to Maglor’s, and he let it go.

Afterwards he sat staring at their untouched breakfast, listening to the large, mounted party setting out from the palace. There were, mixed in with the horses’ hooves, the sounds of the light wagons which were carrying the baggage of the small party of Men who had come up from Forlond to escort the new king to his fleet, plus the final few items Elros had not sent on ahead. Like Laslech, confined like a cat to a travelling cage.

When he was sure they were finally gone, Elrond went and changed out of the leggings and shirt in which he had slept, pulled on casual clothing and, remembering to avoid the place where he had kept the dog’s lead, set off down the garden, looking neither left nor right. The palace grounds ended in a swathe of grass which dropped away abruptly in a steep though shallow cliff at the foot of which lay rocks and then the sea. Elrond halted near the edge and stood staring out over the water, his arms folded, hands clasping elbows, the morning wind lifting and tossing his unbound hair around him like a cloud of smoke.

Out over the sea, far in the West, a star hung low on the horizon, visible even now in the early hours of daylight. It had been there for the last few nights, growing brighter, brighter still, signalling the readiness of the new land and laying a path of light across the sea for the sailors to follow.

 

Elrond had no clear idea how it worked that his father sailed the skies offering light in the darkness, and he didn’t much care. He was out there, leading Elros to the Land of the Gift, into history and exile. Last time they had needed a father’s intervention and protection he had been sailing as well, on the sea instead of through the night skies, always absent, leaving his family to fend for itself.

~~~~

F.A 532 – Havens of Sirion  
  
The other time, the night Eärendil’s presence might have rewritten his family’s history, had been long ago and had set the course for Elrond’s life. Sleeping on a still summer’s night, he and his twin had been roused to unfamiliar, disturbing sounds by their mother shaking them awake, her eyes dark with terror and memory. The Jewel, the great heirloom of their House which had only been shown to them once before, had been clasped around her neck, its otherworldly glow drawing the eye, even in the dark.  
  
“They’re here,” she was hissing, in a voice unlike her own. “The same as last time…they are here, we’ll die, they will kill us. It will be as it was last time, as they killed your uncles, your grandparents…”  
  
She had hurried them from their beds, not giving them time even to dress, taking their hands and leading them from the silent bedchamber. She was barefoot, Elrond had noticed, and her hair, black and shimmering, waved loose around her. Her feet barely seemed to touch the cold flagstones of the passage.  
  
“Why must we go outside?” Elros had asked, trying to slow her down, get her to explain, but she had jerked his arm, forcing him on. Elrond, an affectionate child, had been shocked that their mother should be so rough and, fear starting to edge closer, had done his best to keep up.  
  
She had taken them out onto the main terrace, which was built high above the water. This was a place where they were forbidden to play alone as it was regarded as unsafe, since the railing was small and delicate, meant for ornamentation, not protection. It was then that he understood what he had heard on waking – there were sounds of fighting coming from the houses below, even from the grounds of their own home, and there were fires burning in places where no fires should burn. He could hear voices raised, and the screams and cries were clearer to the ear out in the open, under the clear, star filled, moon bright sky.  
  
He and Elros had stopped as one, trying to understand the inexplicable. “The Kinslayers, Fëanor’s sons,” their mother had gasped, her voice outlined with terror. “Maedhros is here, he must not get us; he will kill us as he did Ada and Nana.” She had been looking left and right as she spoke, her head darting like that of one of the little birds she loved, seeking escape, safety.  
  
“We can hide,” he had told her, pulling her hand. He and his brother had been raised strangers to fear, but he was uncertain of this new mother, this unknown, hunted being. “Come back inside…”  
  
“He will not have it,” she whispered, not hearing him, not really aware of them any longer. “He will soak his hand in blood for eternity but he will not have it. Nor will he have me…my fate is of my choosing, not his.”  
  
She had spun round then, trying to grab hold of them both, draw them to her, but Elros had darted back and Elrond, truly afraid of her at last, had acted on instinct, bending to bite the wrist of the hand that held onto him. She had made a small sound, releasing him, and then one of her women had arrived. Thelenineth, who had fled with her from Doriath, and whose husband sailed with their father, had gathered the twins to her, crying in horror, “Lady, what are you doing? Come, we must hide.”  
  
And Dior’s daughter had drawn herself up, her eyes catching light from the blazing Jewel, and she had cried, “I will not die at their hands as my family did before me, I will not be sport for them. Give me my sons, Thelenineth. This way is better, cleaner…do you not remember what they did with my brothers? They left them to starve…” Her voice had risen to a shriek, and the sound had drawn attention. Footsteps could be heard pounding down the passage, someone screamed in agony, and they had burst out into the night, a group of strangers carrying the torches that had lit the entrance of Eärendil’s home, tall Elves carrying blood-drenched swords, the foremost having hair as red as glowing coals.  
  
In Elrond’s memory what followed seemed somehow to have happened slowly. Illuminated by torchlight, Elwing had turned and stared as though transfixed at the red-haired Elf. She had remained absolutely still for a moment, her hands raised to her face, then she had turned to run, a hand holding the Jewel almost as though for comfort, pale light spilling out between her fingers, and when she reached the railing she leapt straight over it like a young deer. She was still running as she tumbled slowly, slowly down to the water far below.  
  
There had been shouting, Thelenineth and Elros had both been crying, and they had been shoved roughly aside as the intruders rushed to the edge. Standing unnoticed to one side, Elrond had soundlessly watched the light marking the place where his mother had fallen, still shining upwards from under the water. Even as the redhead shouted for a boat to be readied, the light began to move out to sea at a speed which, young as he was, Elrond knew to be at variance with the strength of the tide.  
  
Their mother had been mistaken as it turned out, they had not been killed after all. While they were waiting for the party sent to find Elwing’s body to come back and admit defeat, a tall Elf with night dark hair and sad brown eyes had come over to them and said briefly to the leader, “Let these two go. No more children, brother.”  
  
The leader had glanced at them, huddled against Thelenineth, shattered to silence and said, his expression grim, “They will grow, brother, and draw followers to them, and we have enemies enough.”  
  
His brother shook his head, his hand moving close to his sword hilt. “These are mine. Do what you like with the rest, but these are mine. There will be no more young voices in my mind, calling for their mother and keeping me from my sleep.”  
  
The leader had looked at him expressionlessly, then down at them, and something had moved in his eyes - Elrond went back over that moment many times over the years and could never decide if it had been guilt, regret, sorrow – then he had said briefly, “The line breeds to twins it seems. As you will, Maglor, but they come with us. I will have no dagger for my ribs left here to be raised by Círdan and the new so-called High King. I had only one interest here – and that bitch has taken it from us.”  
  
Fëanor’s remaining sons had not found Elwing, nor the Silmaril, borne out to sea by an unnatural tide to a place and destiny of the Valar’s choosing. They took in their place Eärendil’s sons, Dior’s heirs, and faded back into the wild places from whence they had come.

~~~~

S.A 32 - Lindon  
  
The day proceeded in an ordinary and uneventful manner, though to Elrond the palace always felt different when the King was absent, as though there was an unfilled space somewhere, a quietness. Gil-galad involved himself in the day to day details of the running of his household in a sporadic sort of way, just enough for the staff to feel he was interested, not enough for it to be seen as interference. In his absence things went along as they always did, though accompanied by an air of waiting.  
  
Elrond kept moving. Motion held thought at bay, distracted him from the reality of going back to an empty apartment, took his mind off the absence of the bright, inquisitive presence that no longer kept pace beside him. Elwing’s son had experience in dealing with loss, his life had been drenched in it.

~~~~

late F.A., various camps  
  
From the day he had been untied from the horse and put down in the camp full of Elves who spoke a different tongue, who were rough in their treatment of him and his brother, and whose armour and weapons were all too well used, he had learnt not to let them see his heart. While Elros tried to conform so that he would keep terror at bay through obedience, Elrond had simply pretended he didn’t care. Not about the lack of food, not about the lack of kindness, not about the loss of mother and father, certainly not about the weary, saddened, ever-hopeful Elf who had taken them into his care.  
  
Maglor, drawing on memories of the needs of his younger brothers at their age, had kept them fed and clothed, and had even attempted something in the way of education. More importantly in such troubled times, he was their protector, on two occasions facing his own brother down over a drawn sword when Elrond’s tongue went too far. Maglor it was who had taught them their lineage and to be proud of it, reminding his brother when questioned that these were the great grandsons of Turgon of Gondolin, and in respect to his memory should be treated as such. This had worked well enough, though when he had started teaching them the Song of Luthien, Maedhros had drawn the line.  
  
Through it all Elrond had treated Maglor with a cool suspicion that, as he grew, had matured into a permanent battle of wits between them. He had shown no gratitude to the tired, disillusioned Elf, offered no thanks for care and protection or for the glorious voice raised in song on the nights when fear walked close and sleep refused to come. Maglor had taken them into his care without reservation, and in public Elrond showed him the respect that was his due, at all times keeping the thoughts of his heart to himself.  
  
When they had parted, when Elros had been close to weeping and had embraced their protector as a father, Elrond had held himself straight and proud as he had been taught, and nodded when Maglor told him he would be in touch when things settled down, not believing but nodding anyway. There were no words of love or regret. He had not told his mother he loved her, after all. His farewell to her had been his teeth to her wrist, an act of horror that played over and over in his mind, and he would give no more to others than he had to her.  
  
Maglor had watched them depart, his face unreadable, though there was aching loneliness and regret in his dark eyes. Now, he too was gone, wandering Middle-earth in shame and despair said some, dead said others, the final victim of his father’s Oath. Gone from him as Elros had gone, as his mother and his father before her had gone, as the dog was gone…

~~~~

S.A 32 - Lindon  
  
Elrond pursued a busy but unexceptional day comprised of a double session of combat training, plus an hour with the bow, visits to the barracks and harbour to see what was going on, and several hours listening to Arthiel, one of the healers, as she explained the various ways to set a broken arm. The only unusual event involved an encounter he had near the steep flight of steps cut into the cliffside that led down to the harbour, an informal shortcut from the palace. He was crossing the grounds on his way back to lunch when he was hailed by Lord Círdan, who he had believed to be in Forlond waiting for the new King of Numenor.  
  
There was no way to avoid the summons so he went over to the Gil-galad’s mentor, who was wearing plain brown leggings and tunic and an elderly looking dark green cloak. His hair was tied back in the way of the seaman, which naturally drew attention to his beard. Elrond found the beard interesting, though knew he was in the minority there. He could only suppose it appealed to some thread of his mortal ancestry. He assumed Beren had worn a beard. Tuor, he had been told, shaved daily in an attempt to fit in with the beardless Elves amongst whom he lived for most of his life.  
  
“Hîren?” he asked, sketching a show of politeness as he had assured Gil-galad and, more importantly, Glorfindel that he would.  
  
Círdan surveyed him thoughtfully but kept his council. “I expected you to have ridden with your brother this morning?”  
  
Elrond’s face went bland as a sheet of virgin parchment. “We said our goodbyes already. There was no point in dragging it out in front of an audience.”  
  
Círdan nodded slowly, accepting the reasoning as being flawed though consistent. “If you have had a change of heart, I travel to the Forlond now by water. I would be prepared to wait for you…”  
  
Elrond shook his head. “No thank you, Hîren. There’s no need for that.”  
  
Círdan inclined his head. “In that case, I will be on my way. When I return we could perhaps spend a few hours discussing what it is you wish to learn from me? Gil-galad was far from clear, other than the fact that he had no wish for you to study with Galadriel, with which I concur. Did you have any objective beyond controlling your abilities?”  
  
Elrond sensed this was an important question, though he had no idea of the ‘right’ answer so he opted for simplicity. “I just want to make sure things stop happening by accident. Beyond that I’ve not thought. I wondered if you could tell me what was possible, then I could decide.”  
  
Círdan looked almost pleased, if that were possible. “We can certainly discuss that when I return. It seems a sensible place to begin.” He moved towards the steep stairs then paused and turned back. “Was there anything you would like me to take to your brother? Something he or you may have forgotten?”  
  
It was on the tip of Elrond’s tongue to say that Elros already had the best gift he could give him in Laslech, then, unbidden, the instinct that had nagged at him on several occasions in the last weeks returned, the feeling that he should give his brother the one item belonging to their family that referred to their mortal ancestry – Beren’s ring, the Ring of Barahir. From earliest childhood they had both been fascinated by the tale of how it had passed from Finrod through their great grandfather Beren and thence, finally, to them, and Elros had in particular been drawn to it. However, hurt about Laslech, and believing the treasury of a House of Men was no place for an Elven heirloom, Elrond had kept silent.  
  
The emotions that waged across his face brought Círdan, who had been concerned at the icy control he had been witnessing, back from the top of the steps. “If you wish to fetch something, I will wait for you,” he offered, his tone more gentle than he was accustomed to using with this spirit of rebellion who put him so much in mind of Lúthien, Thingol’s willful daughter.  
  
“It’s in the Treasury, for safekeeping.” Elrond hesitated. “I would have to get someone to unlock it for me and…”  
  
Círdan sat down on a convenient tree stump, which had been left in place as a seat offering a wonderful view over the harbour. It had been a favourite spot of Elros’, Elrond remembered belatedly.  
  
“Get along and fetch it then,” Círdan said equably. “I have time.”

~~~~

The rest of the day had passed. Elrond had taken dinner with the household instead of eating in his rooms and had wandered the gardens for a time. He even thought of taking an evening ride along the beach, but the sky had clouded over and the air had turned chill. The only good thing about this, from his point of view, was that it lessened the brilliance of Vingilot, still shining in the West.  
  
He went home by his usual route, along the terrace, through the garden, and down to the private entrance which Gil-galad had offered as the right of all young Elves. Elrond had the idea it was something he would have liked himself at their age. It was full dark. Erestor would already have come and gone, as no doubt he had in the morning when Elrond had been looking out over the sea. Someone had thoughtfully lit a lamp, as he could see through the half closed drapes, but the door had been left closed.  
  
He went in and looked around, truly alone at last. The fire had been lit, as were the lamps, and there were fresh flowers on the table. He stood still for a long time before walking slowly through to Elros’ room. Which was no longer his brother’s room. It had been transformed, and now bore the unoccupied appearance of a guest bedroom. There was no trace of his twin remaining. Up until then he had been treating this as he would one of Elros’ visits to one of his future councillor’s households. These would last for several weeks, sometimes months, but the time would pass, bringing Elros back with strange, interesting gifts and unlikely stories. Then, his personal things had remained as he had left them, just somewhat neater. Now they were gone.  
  
Elrond stared at the spot on the bed where he had spent the night, leaving before first light, before Elros could wake and find him, and have the words from him that sat in his throat as they had for Maglor, then he backed out of the room breathing carefully as though he were in pain. He stood in the little hallway between their rooms, his mind deliberately empty, then crossed over and opened the door to his own bedroom.  
  
The lamp had been lit in here too - some member of the staff feeling sympathy for him, no doubt, and trying to make his empty home somewhat more inviting. His room was as he had left it, of course, just tidier. There were fresh flowers in here too. And Laslech’s blanket had been, as always, shaken out and folded neatly back in ‘her’ corner. He stared at this for a long moment and then walked over and bent to pick it up, with some disconnected thought about putting it away. Instead he stood holding it loosely, staring down at it.  
  
To begin with, when she was a small puppy, she had developed a habit of scratching the blanket up into what was almost a nest, attested to by little loops and pulled threads. Later, as she grew, the need for this seemed to subside, though he often woke to the sight of her lying with her head half under a convenient fold. He had supposed it gave her security. His hands tightened convulsively on the soft fabric, then he took a deep breath and went to place it in the chest in the corner which currently held his summer clothes.  
  
The room felt cold somehow, constraining. Much of his life had been spent in a place of emotional coldness, frozen since the night on the terrace when he had hurt his mother to save himself from sharing her fate. On the nights when he remembered those hours of horror he had always gone to Ros, to whom he needed say nothing. Elros had kept his eyes closed at the time and had not seen Elwing’s leap, and had cried for his mother till his grief had quietened in the normal way of the young. But he knew it was different for his brother and gave him the comfort of his presence and small words about the events of the day till the memories settled.  
  
He had no awareness of leaving the room, of exiting the apartment steeped in memories of his brother and his brother’s dog, and laughter and talking into the night and arguments that passed like summer lightning and secrets shared and dreams confided. All he knew was that he was back in the garden, in the dark under the trees, untouched by the light of the western star that was his father’s great ship carrying the Jewel, and that he had nowhere to go. Gil-galad, whose calm, solid presence was something he found he wanted with a need that was almost physical, was with Elros, had always preferred Elros anyway he suspected, and Glorfindel, as ever, was with the King.  
  
His body moved through the palace garden, up on the terrace, along corridors, while his mind remained in a cold dark place, as it had been the night his mother had stepped onto air, her hand clasping the Silmaril, as it also had been when he had said goodbye to Maglor and gone on to the unknown cousin who had been hunting for them for so many years. As it had been when he had looked into his twin’s face that morning and found no words to offer him, no tears to shed as his brother left him to go on to honour and death. Elros was going to die. He thought the words clearly for the first time, and in giving them reality he had to accept them.  
  
He looked around, to discover he was standing in the passage outside a door somewhere in the staff quarters. He had only been here once before, alone that time as well and drawn by his curiosity to find out where room sixty-two was. That time he had left without knocking, despite the fleeting temptation to do so. This time, too, he stood with his hand raised for a few moments, somewhere between light and dark, then watched as it reached out seemingly of its own accord and knocked.  
  
The door opened after a minute, before he had time to reconsider what he had done and walk away, and Erestor stood there looking at him, surprise crossing his face, followed by an almost-smile which slid into concern. He was wearing a loose white shirt and dark leggings and his hair hung over his shoulders like a fall of glossy black satin, reaching to his waist. Behind him Elrond could see the room, which looked very much as he might have expected. There were drapes and wall hangings, and soft light from lamps under tinted covers. He caught glimpses of cushions and two comfortable looking chairs, and off to the side, under a rich russet cover and tastefully scattered with cushions to make its presence less blatant, was the bed. He even noticed and could identify a faint scent, citrus with spicy undertones.  
  
He brought his attention back to Erestor, who seemed to be saying something, though he was finding it hard to follow words suddenly, and he tried to explain this by holding out his hands and gesturing helplessly. Then Erestor moved forward, reaching for him, and he was brought close against a firm, slender body as strong arms went around him and caught him as he was falling through coldness and held him safe.  
  
Erestor managed, by moving backwards slowly and carefully, to bring them both into the room far enough for him to be able to close the door, then stood still. After a time Elrond reached to put his arms around his waist, and then, resting his cheek against Erestor’s shoulder and turning his face in against his neck, he wept.


	19. Chapter 19

_The cavalcade travelling along the coast road made an impressive sight, accompanied as it was fore and aft by riders bearing the standard of the High King, along with an assortment of other brightly coloured banners and crests. These included the new colours of Númenor, as well as the emblem of the House of the Golden Flower of Gondolin. Their pace was leisurely, dictated largely by the presence of wagons, which carried gifts selected by the High King and his Council to be taken over the sea to the New Land as a token of friendship, and the last few personal items Elros had been reluctant to send on ahead. Amongst these, confined to her cage, was Laslech, the new king’s dog.._

~~~~

The road  
Glorfindel, not unexpectedly, enjoyed the journey to Forlond. Already curious about the expansion of Lindon, he was fascinated by everything along their route; the new settlements, the cultivated fields, the orchards, the many signs of the beginnings of prosperity. The early winter’s day was mild, with intermittent cloud and a fairly brisk breeze, and the scents of sea and growing things combined with the warmth of the sun on his back to give him a feeling of quiet contentment.  
  
He rode either alone or else alongside Dalbros, the senior librarian, who was unaccustomed to travel, and was enthusiastically excited to have been included in the party. He had been invited specifically to record the details of this unprecedented event for inclusion in the History of the Kingdom of Lindon which he had recently begun compiling.  
  
The party included a group of Men, mainly sons and younger brothers of several of Elros’ councillors who, on an impulse born of youthful high spirits, had travelled up from Forlond, wishing to provide a welcoming escort for their uncrowned King. To Glorfindel’s amused surprise, they got along far better with the assortment of Elven councillors and nobles and the members of the strongly armed escort of warriors than would probably have occurred under more formal conditions  
  
Gil-galad rode a little apart from the rest, apparently deep in thought, not even speaking to Elros who rode in equal silence a short distance behind him. Glorfindel discreetly watched the future king of Númenor smile and speak to any who came to ride alongside him, but the smile failed to touch his eyes and there was an air about him that suggested company was tolerated rather than sought. Knowing how this venture had been thrust upon him, the Elf from Gondolin could hardly begin to imagine what might be going through his mind.

~~~~

Neither Men nor horses have the endurance of the Eldar, therefore arrangements had been made for the party to pass the night in a lightly wooded area just outside a small fishing village, which they reached late in the afternoon. Those responsible for the travellers’ comfort had gone on ahead while the main party had stopped for lunch, and by the time the King arrived, tented pavilions had been set up, fires had been lit, and dinner preparations were already underway.  
  
Glorfindel, having found his designated shelter, noticed that the royal standard was in the process of being raised above Gil-galad’s tent, and that guards had already been set at the entrance. He smiled wryly. This was one night he and Gil would definitely be spending apart.  
  
To fill the time before dinner, he decided to explore the village, taking with him a couple of sticks of charcoal and his new sketch book, which was already half filled with rough drawings. Art had been a much-loved pastime in his youth until curtailed by his father, who insisted this was an unsuitable hobby for the son of a lord. He had recently confided this to Erestor, whose response, within hours, had been to present him with a variety of materials to experiment with and on. Glorfindel found himself actually teasing the dark Elf, suggesting that this ability to produce the unlikely at such short notice displayed the makings of an exceptional quartermaster.  
  
Which, in time, would prove to be true.  
  
The village contained no more than a few dozen houses and a blacksmith’s, all huddled around or close to a central square. A small, open space near the little harbour was hedged with rosemary and rowan and contained a circle of polished white stones, shoulder high; this was obviously the village holy place. Glorfindel had heard of this practice, which was rapidly growing up amongst the Sindar, who in their turn had obtained it from the Silvan Elves. Despite it being fashionable to mock such behaviour as unsophisticated, he rather liked the idea of having a place set aside to go and give thanks to the Shining Ones and to remember those lost during the times of trouble.  
  
He paused beside it, not liking to intrude in a place that was not his own, and, closing his eyes briefly, made his thanks – for life, for friends, for the cool sea air, for the merciful fading of his nightmarish memories, for Gil-galad… Especially for Gil-galad. Glorfindel, as he slowly adjusted to his new life, remained ambivalent towards much of it, but not about the King. In a manner that was both complex and wonderfully simple, he knew that in Gil-galad he had found the love of his life. No matter what road the future took, no matter the state of the King’s heart, for Glorfindel this love would be forever, a part of his own personal thread of the Music.

~~~~

The palace  
The emotional storm that had torn through Elrond’s defenses and sent him into Erestor’s arms ran its course, though not before he had stammered out a semi-coherent catalogue of the horror and loss that had filled his life, most of it into Erestor’s white-clad shoulder. Erestor said nothing throughout, simply held him and stroked his hair and back, eventually guiding him to the bed so that they could sit together instead of standing in the centre of the room.  
  
When the wracking sobs had finally ceased and even the occasional soft hiccough of a tear had subsided, Erestor rose and went to open the prohibitively expensive bottle of miruvor he had bought in case of a special occasion, and the two small cups out of which it was customarily drunk. Going back to the bed, he took a moment to consider his unexpected guest with concern. Elrond sat very straight on the edge of the bed, with his head bowed and his hair hanging loose and tumbling wildly around him. His hands were clutching the coverlet, gripping so tightly the knuckles were white; he looked pale and tense, with eyes so dark as to seem almost black.  
  
Erestor offered the miruvor and said firmly, “Come on, drink some of this. It’ll help steady you.”  
  
Elrond took the cup and looked down at it uncertainly, before putting it to his lips and sipping the potent liquid. “Half a bottle might do that,” he said in something closer to his usual tones.  
  
Erestor smiled briefly. “It’s a very small bottle,” he observed dryly. “Still, even a cup will help. It can’t diffuse the pain, but …”  
  
Elrond sipped again, then looked up at Erestor through his hair. “I’m sorry about…earlier,” he said slowly. “It was just – it was too much this time. It feels as though everyone I love gets taken from me. Today was just…very hard to deal with. I’m sorry for intruding on you like this, I’m sorry for making you listen to all that…”  
  
Erestor sat down and reached over, covering the hand not holding the cup with his own. “You came to me, I listened. If there had been more I could do, I would. No need for apology, ever. The danger with pain is that if you keep it inside, it confines its poison to your heart. Eventually either it eats you alive or you grow hard enough to ignore it. Neither are good, though learning to be hard is worse, I think. It grinds away at the place in your soul where love grows.”  
  
Elrond slanted him a glance from dark eyes. “They make songs about my family’s history for entertainment. Elros will just be one more tragic hero to add to the list.” He made no attempt to hide the resentment in his tone.  
  
Erestor nodded, unable to argue with this simple fact. “I know it hurts to see people you love being reduced to a fireside tale, but if you only look at the pain you forget the joy. Death is not an ending to love unless we make it so.”  
  
Elrond’s face became still and closed and he drew his hand back. “For us, perhaps. Not Elros,” he said flatly. “But, of course, he will make a lovely song…”  
  
Erestor placed a firm hand under the Half-elf’s chin, tilting it up so that he could look into the dark grey eyes, and spoke firmly. “Elrond, most of us now living have suffered loss of some type. I know it feels as though you’re alone, but you’re not. I really do understand…”  
  
Elrond had the grace to lower his eyes and give a small nod. “I know I’m not the only one,” he admitted. “I know the stories, I grew up with them. Still, they tend to make much of my family… it’s almost as bad as coming from Gondolin, I think,” he added with an attempt at humour.  
  
Erestor started to tidy the tangle of web-fine hair back from the Half-elf’s face. “Or Nargothrond,” he agreed almost conversationally. “I’ve had a few days when I’ve wished the songs could at least have been written by someone who had actually seen a Dragon.”  
  
Elrond turned his head into the tidying hand almost unconsciously and frowned thoughtfully, a spark of interest lighting eyes that had previously been flat and distant. “Have you ever seen one? A Dragon, I mean.”  
  
Erestor paused. Like Elrond, he lived life behind a mask, in his case not as a defense against pain, but as a means to force the world to take him seriously. Exotically beautiful, with his slanting, amber eyes, shining black hair and creamy skin, it had taken several harsh lessons before he learned that the best response to those who saw no further than his obvious attractions was a cool, superior attitude and an acid tongue.  
  
Most people with whom he had dealings very quickly stopped noticing his appearance, although this, he knew, was not yet the case with the Princeling. Gentleness and vulnerability had no place in the façade he presented to the world, nor had the memories of his past, yet these, his instincts told him, were needed to convince Elrond that he did not have to deal with this latest grief totally alone.  
  
“Yes, I’ve seen one,” he said in an even voice. “I saw Glaurung himself.”  
  
Elrond curled onto the bed and, drawing his legs up beneath him to sit cat-like, assumed a waiting air, the cup forgotten in his hand. Erestor put his miruvor down on the floor and impulsively crawled across the bed to sit behind Elrond, who looked back over his shoulder, startled. He relaxed when Erestor drew his wayward hair back before picking up a brush from the little nightstand and starting to impose some form of order while he talked.  
  
“It was against the rules, but we were walking together – we were all very young,” he began, brushing firmly, his voice soft with memory. “We’d been sent on an errand to Círdan’s people. I remember I was talking about a visit to the baths and about my mother’s cooking… At any rate, Brethil was the one who first realised something was badly wrong, though it was Dínen – he was sister’s son to my father, he died during the War – who said he smelt smoke, and…something more. We kept low after that, and silent, but even so I think the only thing that saved us was that they never thought to look so close to the caves for more victims.”  
  
He fell silent, remembering an odour of burning mingled with a foul, metallic stench with an edge of corruption. The scent of Dragon.  
  
“The bushes down by the river were on fire,” he continued, brushing slowly. “The smoke hid us, so we could get close enough to watch, even hear… The survivors were mainly women and children. They were being…herded out onto the long terrace in front of the entrance. The Orcs were kicking them, driving them along with whips…”  
  
His voice trailed off. Elrond shifted back to lean against him, and placed a steadying hand on his thigh, his own grief for the moment put aside. Erestor set the brush down and slid an arm round him before continuing. “There were only six of us, we could do nothing. We watched them drive our people across the bridge...When it was built, my great-uncle Gwindor said it would be our doom, and he was right. Before then, we had been hidden, but the bridge showed Morgoth the road to our door.”  
  
He drew a ragged breath before going on. “The Mormegil was there too, the Man you’d know as Túrin Turambar. He was standing on the edge of the terrace near the bridge - they had to pass him before they crossed it. We heard Orodreth’s daughter, Lady Finduilas, screaming at him to wake up, to help them…She tried to go to him but the Orcs laid hands on her and pushed her to join the others. He never moved. He just stood there…bewitched by Glaurung.”  
  
He paused, his eyes distant, and began to absently finger the soft fabric of Elrond’s sleeve. “How do I describe Glaurung to you? You probably need to understand where this happened. There was a terrace, and then shallow stairs leading down to the bridge and he was lying sprawled across the terrace with his head resting on the top step…” He was quiet for a moment, his hand still. “For years after, I saw that head in my dreams,” he said, his voice low. “Like a lizard, only – immense. They had to pass him as they left, close enough to reach out a hand, close enough to feel his breath on their skin…”  
  
There were no words that would do justice to the memory, no way to explain scales that were a tarnished greenish gold, a body monstrously immense, so much so that the mind revolted at the sight. Words could never begin to convey the reality of those heavily muscled forelimbs, stocky, obscenely clawed, nor the grinning, darkly-crested head, almost the height of a full-grown Elf. And the eyes… He had caught a glimpse of the corner of one eye. Red it was, a dark, unhealthy red, and even that quick glance showed him the power and intelligence of the serpent, for this was no mere beast, but a sentient being. And emanating from it, as tangible as the acrid smoke that eddied and flowed around it, had been an aura of pure malice. Words, he realised, could only diminish it.  
  
Elrond sat up and turned to face Erestor, and asked in a voice that was little more than a whisper. “Your family?”  
  
He shrugged slightly, and the amber eyes closed briefly. “I saw my mother and one sister pass the serpent’s head. My other sister….she was very young. They killed the ones too small to work. Her name was Galuiel. My father? I assume my father died fighting on Tumhalad. I never found anyone who knew for sure.”  
  
“How do you bear it?” The words came unbidden to Elrond’s lips, asking the question that had coloured his own life for so many years. He was kneeling with his hands resting lightly on his thighs, leaning forward slightly, his expression intent. Erestor considered him thoughtfully, then placed his hands firmly over Elrond’s, and summoned an attempt at a smile.  
  
“I was angry and in pain for a very long time,” he admitted. “We were a close family. But my pain was overwhelming the good memories I had of them – so I let it go.”  
  
“Our kind go to Mandos,” Elrond said quietly. “And later some are reborn in Aman. You will find them again some day. Not my brother. His death will be absolute.”  
  
Erestor shook his head and smiled properly this time. “Who knows how death might change the reborn fëa? And I live here, not in the West. No. All I have for comfort is what I offer you. As long as we keep their memory fresh and etched in love, as long as there is a voice to tell their tale, those we love will never leave us.”  
  
He slid his arms around Elrond, and moved gracefully into his answering embrace. As the Half-elf's cheek came to rest against his hair, he added, “Believe this, Elrond, and your brother will never die.”

~~~~

The road  
Glorfindel explored the narrow streets, made a few brief sketches of the harbour and outlined a view of the houses surrounding the square, which he thought he might later expand into a painting, though he suspected he was being overly ambitious. After this, he immersed himself in the lines and curves that slowly shaped themselves into a picture of the circle of stones with the sea behind it. So involved did he become in this that it was only the fading of the light that made him realise he was in danger of missing dinner.  
  
No one stopped to speak with him in the village, either during the time he spent there or at his departure, though he knew many pairs of eyes had been following his progress with interest. The few Elves he passed on his way back to the camp nodded and made the gesture of respect, fingers to forehead, which was normally reserved for great lords. They were partially right, he thought, with a small clench of sadness round his heart, not for the rank which had once been his, but for all he had lost with the passing of its relevance.  
  
On his return, he found dinner being served and most of the company already eating. He joined the small group still gathered at the makeshift table – a board resting on two strips of wood – from which the remaining fish, pork and venison was being portioned out, and was waiting his turn when a member of the escort came up behind him, holding out a well-laden plate.  
  
“His Majesty noticed your absence, my lord, and asked me to see to this for you. He said you would prefer the fish?”  
  
Glorfindel turned, feeling the warmth in his face and hoping the blush wasn’t obvious in the gathering dusk. No matter how he tried, this was something over which he seemed to have no control. “Fish was a rarity in Gondolin,” he explained with a quick smile. Taking in the plate’s contents, he added, “And thank you, this was well-chosen.”  
  
The warrior nodded confirmation. “Fish, well cooked, and a mixed salad, his Majesty said. And bread, not bratan. He was very clear about that.”  
  
Bratan were strongly spiced wheat cakes, highly popular in Lindon, but foreign and unpalatable to the newcomer.  
  
Most of the travellers had taken their food and gone to sit around the fire which had been built up within stones in the centre of the clearing, but Glorfindel found a quiet spot on the grass under a tree, made himself comfortable and began to eat. He had always kept a little apart, shyness being a barrier to the easy mingling that happened apparently effortlessly around him, and he had learned to take pleasure in being a spectator instead of a participant at social events.  
  
He was suddenly taken by a feeling of unreality as he watched the scene before him. Men and Elves mingled in small groups, while the smoke rising from the fires danced in the glow of the lanterns which shone amongst the trees, strung there partly for the convenience of the Men, who lacked Elven sight after dark, partly for love of the atmosphere they created. Voices were talking, laughing, raised in song, all blending in harmony with the unseen, murmuring presence of the sea…  
  
Gondolin had been a land of firmly imposed order, with accepted rules for public conduct. This relaxed sharing of food, interlaced with easy companionship and snatches of melody would have been deeply frowned upon. For the King himself to be part of it, to be wandering around, plate in hand, stopping to talk to first one group then another as he had been when Glorfindel had returned, would have been unthinkable. He sat, bread in hand, feeling dislocated as he had not for some weeks, trying to reconcile the sense of unreality, of being in two places at once, of being two people - for the Glorfindel of Lindon was developing into a very different person to the insecure, withdrawn Glorfindel of Gondolin.  
  
“Ah, there you are, Glorfindel. May I join you?” Dalbros, holding two cups of wine, stood looking down at him. Brought solidly back to the present, solitude no longer an option, Glorfindel smiled a greeting and was soon caught up in conversation. Reality returned and the sense of dislocation gradually retreated.

~~~~

After he had eaten, Glorfindel scraped his plate, left it on the stack to be washed and, after helping himself to an apple from the fruit offered in lieu of dessert, decided on a short walk before steeling himself to join the crowd sitting around the fire. This time he went up to the road, thinking to go as far as the watch station which had been set up a short distance from the camp. He had not gone far before he saw Gil-galad, who was standing looking out over the sea at the strange new light shining brilliantly in the West. Glorfindel was surprised to see that Laslech was with him, leashed and sitting obediently beside him, waiting, as Elrond had taught her, till they could move on.  
  
He approached them unhurriedly, ignoring the sense of eyes on his back and telling himself firmly not to be fanciful, no one was watching, and, even if they were, this was nothing more than an innocent conversation. Gil-galad, alerted by Laslech’s excited bark and wagging tail, turned and smiled an invitation, his eyes lighting with welcome.  
  
“I should have thought of this,” Glorfindel said, smiling a greeting and gesturing to the dog. “She hated being in that cage. I should have taken her with me when I went to look at the village, too.”  
  
Earlier in the day, hearing the dog barking for attention, he had dropped back a few times to ride beside the wagon on which she was being transported, along with an assortment of crates and baskets, but his presence had only caused her to whine and scratch to be released. Concerned by her obvious fear and confusion, he had finally decided it would be best to let her alone in the hope that she would accept the situation and settle down.  
  
“They let her out on the road a few times, but otherwise…. I was going to ask someone to take her for a walk, but it seemed easier to do it myself,” Gil-galad explained, reaching down to gently tug one of the young dog’s ears. “I wanted to have a look at the view anyway…it’s almost as bright as day.”  
  
They stood together, watching the unearthly glow of Vingilot sailing low across the sea in the West. Glorfindel, who remembered the coming of the moon and the wonder it had engendered, had been surprised the unnatural light was accepted in so matter of fact a manner, but the Eldar had seen many strange things since that first moonrise, not all of them good, and they were less easily over-awed.  
  
“I expected Elrond to change his mind in the end and ride with us,” he remarked, kneeling down beside the dog. She licked him with less than her usual exuberance, confused by the cage and the journey and not understanding the reason for what, in her world, could only be a punishment for some unfathomable error.  
  
Gil-galad shook his head, his eyes following the flight of a gull, as clearly outlined against the sky as it would have been by moonlight. “It would be harder to keep up a front at the last, and there’d be too many eyes watching. I’m guessing they said what needed saying days ago. It’s the way they are.”  
  
Glorfindel nodded slowly. “I should have tried to talk him into coming along anyway, or else stayed behind myself,” he said, putting an arm round Laslech and petting her. “I was wrong to leave him alone like this.”  
  
“We’ll only be gone a few days,” Gil-galad replied, shrugging with the smallest touch of impatience. Glorfindel’s regular concern for Elrond tended to unsettle him for reasons he preferred not to analyse. “He’ll be more likely to need support once the reality’s had a chance to set in. Whatever he’s dealing with now could hardly be worse than the strain of putting on a face with everyone watching to see how he coped.”  
  
Glorfindel shot him a glance. The remark had the edge of bitter experience to it. He was reminded of Elrond’s comments about Gil-galad having to cope with the news of the destruction of Nargothrond and the deaths of his father and sister whilst he was in Círdan’s care, and living amongst strangers. Deciding to keep the conversation light, he sought a less sombre topic. “You seemed to be enjoying yourself earlier?” he said, making it a question. “You spent a lot of time talking with the Men. You enjoy their company, don’t you? The Second-born generally, I mean, not just this group.”  
  
Gil’s mouth pulled in a wry smile. “They have a lot to recommend them, I find,” he admitted. He glanced around, confirmed they were alone and came and sat down next to Glorfindel, stretching his legs out before him and leaning back on his hands, close enough for their shoulders to touch. He gave Glorfindel a sidelong, considering glance, before saying slowly, “I have spent almost my whole life being compared to my predecessors – to Fingolfin and Fingon, to Turgon, to my uncle Finrod… To the Second-born, these names are unimportant. There has only been one High King of the Elves for several generations of their kind. Amongst them I need not feel I am continually being measured…”  
  
He stopped a moment and compressed his lips, then he glanced at Glorfindel with a rueful smile before leaning against him and pushing him lightly. The smile failed to reach his eyes; they were watchful, waiting for judgement or disapproval. “I think Elrond had to hear some of this the night I got drunk,” he admitted. “I’m completely sober tonight - hopefully I’m less self-pitying, too. It’s just – very hard to walk in their shadows sometimes.”  
  
Glorfindel let go of Laslech, who had found peace in familiar company and was lying waiting for Elrond to come and fetch her home. He turned to face Gil, and placed a hand over one of his, knowing they were visible to anyone else who might care to walk along the road from the camp, knowing too that touch was essential to someone as tactile as the King. He understood how difficult it had been to share this confidence. Gil-galad’s eyes met his, and offered his vulnerability as a gift.  
  
“Turgon accepted isolation for us,” Glorfindel said, choosing his words carefully. “I think it was the wrong choice – it left us trapped and unprepared when the attack came. Fingon was ill-advised, too inclined to listen to Maedhros who, in his turn, was driven by his father’s Oath, not the good of the Eldar. And Fingolfin…” He looked again at the light on the water, remembering another light, a powerful, larger-than-life personality. Something of this showed in his face, and he looked suddenly his age, one of the dwindling number of the Aman-born still to be found in Middle-earth.  
  
“Fingolfin was a great king, a wonderful leader. At the end, his choice was more impulsive than wise, but he did what he felt was right.” He paused, turning back to Gil. “You remind me of him a little, perhaps. You have the same strength, the same love for your people. But you also need to remember, those times were different. I have seen them all, Gil. I even – barely – remember Finwë, and I believe that for this Age and this place, you are the best King we could have. I think, in time, you could show yourself greater than all of them.”  
  
Gil-galad turned his hand and intertwined their fingers, squeezing briefly. He said nothing, but the look in his eyes, which appeared almost silver in the strange light, told Glorfindel it had been enough. They sat together, hands linked, with Laslech dozing beside them, and watched the light of the last of the Silmarils marking a pathway across the sea.


	20. Chapter 20

Forlond

_The major harbour and commercial centre of Forlindon, was a busy town boasting a highly cosmopolitan population of Elves, Men, and even a small colony of Dwarves. Built at the foot of rolling hills, bordered by farmlands and forest, it was also home to the King’s Fleet, the swift, dark-sailed vessels that patrolled the coastline, protecting shipping from possible piracy and ready to deploy at speed a small force of seasoned warriors as aid against the many enemies wandering leaderless since the end of the Great War._

_The port in no way resembled Círdan’s solemnly reverenced, closely guarded Haven at Mithlond, the departure point for those seeking the peace and eternal security of the Undying Lands. Instead, Forlond was a bustle of warehouses and fisheries and all the normal occupations of any costal town. The section of the waterfront not given over to the Fleet offered markets and merchants’ storefronts, usually with the family home around the back, as well as a small selection of taverns and inns, some more respectable than others._

 

~~~~

After a pleasant ride that took them through outlying farmlands and densely forested areas, the King’s party arrived at the home of Edhelûr, the aged Telerin referred to as the Master of Forlond, who controlled the harbour and answered to the King for the governance of the town. His residence, set high on the hill, proved to be a large, rambling estate with storerooms and orchards and an extensive vegetable garden.  
  
The house was crowded but Glorfindel, given a room at the back overlooking a wood where the trees still held their bright autumn colours, felt immediately and inexplicably at home. He would have been happy to pass what remained of the morning exploring the grounds, but Gil-galad, who arrived as he was busy putting away the few items of clothing he had brought with him, had other ideas.  
  
Leaving the door open for propriety’s sake, the King strode to the middle of the room and looked around, frowning.  
  
“Manwë's balls, is this the best they could do for you? I’ve seen larger closets.”  
  
The golden warrior, who had long since ceased being troubled by the occasional obscenity, gestured to the window. “It’s cosy, and the view’s wonderful. Anyway, we’ll only be here for two nights, won’t we?”  
  
Gil-galad nodded briefly, still scrutinizing his surroundings. “Yes, and I’m going to feel as though the walls are closing in on me. And that bed looks as though it was made for a Dwarf…”  
  
“You’re surely not thinking of spending the night here?” the blonde asked in disbelief. “The whole house will know by morning, the whole of Lindon an hour after we return home.”  
  
“Aren’t you starting to get a little tired of this overworked caution?” the King asked him with a touch of irritation. ”If they want to gossip, let them. Just ignore it, they’ll soon get bored.”  
  
Glorfindel, sitting on the edge of the bed, looked up at him seriously. “It isn’t only gossip I’m worried about, Gil. I was a courtier in Gondolin. There’s more involved here than me being over-sensitive as you keep calling it.”  
  
Gil-galad blew out a breath and came to sit beside him. “How I spend my private time, and with whom, is no one’s business but mine…” he began, but stilled when Glorfindel placed a firm hand on his wrist.  
  
“It should be, but it isn’t,” he said calmly. “Círdan plainly disapproves that things are - as they are between us. I think that reaction would be general.” How things really stood between them was not something Gil had so far displayed any need to clarify, but he resisted the urge to mention this.  
  
The King turned to study his face carefully. “What are you saying, exactly?” he asked. “That I should behave like some tragic hero in a song? Are you suggesting I deny my true nature and bind to satisfy Círdan’s urge to see me produce heirs?”  
  
“He might have a point,” the Elf from Gondolin said quietly. ”People accept a liaison between two males if it’s discreet, but in your case they assume a queen and children. It’s the main focus of court politics right now. If you’re interested, the current favourite seems to be Aravilui’s daughter, Heriadlas.”  
  
Gil-galad’s lips tightened briefly, then he placed an arm heavily around Glorfindel’s shoulders and sighed.  
  
“Yes, I know. Look, I won’t deny the need for tact, but binding and creating a family are not for me. This is something people will just have to learn to accept, as I have. As for the succession - I have no intention of dying, but if the need arose I already have a perfectly adequate heir in Elrond. At any rate, I didn’t come here to talk about this,” he added briskly, rising to his feet and pulling his companion up with him. “I have things to see to in town. I thought you might like to come and have a look at the real heart of Lindon.”

~~~~

The small group that eventually set out included Master Edhelûr, the King’s senior assistant who was a quiet Sinda named Thenin, and Dalbros who, eager for whatever information he could glean, was elated to be invited. They spent the next few hours visiting communities of net and sail makers, carpenters, weavers and a wide variety of merchants. Gil-galad, who had the good commander’s gift for remembering faces, names and family details, wandered in and out of homes and workshops, talking to everyone. Glorfindel watched, amused, as the King managed to turn an inspection into a much relished visit amongst old friends  
  
When eventually they reached the harbour, Edhelûr led them past two guard posts and down a small incline, coming out just above the pier where the Fleet docked and the ships being made ready by Círdan’s shipwrights for the Secondborn were moored. Having no idea of the numbers involved in the migration, Glorfindel was unprepared for the sight of so many vessels, almost fifty he estimated, built of pale wood and with shimmering green and yellow sails, all riding at anchor, ready to depart.  
  
They had barely dismounted when Círdan came clambering down from a half-completed ship still in the dry dock and, ignoring Gil-galad for the moment, hailed Edhelûr, embracing him in greeting like a brother. He was casually dressed, his hair was tied back like that of an ordinary seaman, and Glorfindel had a sense of finally seeing the aged Elf in his natural element.  
  
A highly animated conversation ensued as Círdan and Edhelûr attempted to explain a new innovation to Gil-galad regarding sail design, and the difficulties of persuading the sail-makers to comply. Glorfindel, who knew little about ships and nothing about sails, was standing off to one side and looking out over the bay when a softly accented voice spoke unsettlingly close to his ear.  
  
“Well met, Twice-born. Do I find you content in this time and place?”  
  
Glorfindel turned slowly, controlling the sense of ice water trickling down his spine, to face the silver-haired, amethyst-eyed Herald of the Valar. Eönwë had joined them so silently that no one had been aware of his arrival. The blonde had never before met one of the Maiar, though he had seen several in his youth in Tirion, and had been taught the correct procedure should he encounter one. He touched his fingers in a circle to his forehead to symbolize unity with the One, then rested his hand over his heart.  
  
“I am well, Lord,” he said levelly, feeling rather than hearing Gil-galad move up behind him, close enough for warm breath to stir his hair. It was like having a wall at his back, and he took a moment to be relieved at not having to cope with the Maia alone. Glorfindel had been taught to regard the beings who were so often the link between Elves and Valar with awed affection, but there was no trace of warmth in Eönwë, nothing to inspire even mild liking.  
  
The Maia inclined his head graciously. “Lord Námo was most generous on your account. I would advise you to make good use of the life he has granted you.”  
  
Glorfindel’s head jerked up sharply at the condescending tone and, with the occasional recklessness that came to him in battle, he retorted, “I honour Lord Námo for granting me a second chance, Lord, but it would make more sense if he had thought to tell me why I was here.”  
  
Behind him, on the edge of hearing, came a soft, gasping laugh from Gil-galad. Long moments passed during which seagulls cried, timbers creaked and half-furled sails flapped sharply, and all the while those cool violet eyes surveyed him thoughtfully, contemplating the enormity of his lack of respect.  
  
“Your determination and veritas were apparently noted,” he was finally informed in the same toneless, emotionless voice. “Some day your experience in confronting the forces of darkness will be called upon again. When the time comes, all will be made clear to you. I can tell you no more.”  
  
Dismissing Glorfindel with a disdainful motion of his shoulder, Eönwë addressed himself to Círdan. “The time grows short,” he said in somewhat more clipped tones. “How much longer do we have to wait before your mariners arrive? All else is in readiness. Further delays are unacceptable.”

~~~~

Elrond woke disoriented by the unfamiliarity of a warm body nearby and the sound of soft breathing close to his ear. Opening his eyes carefully, he looked around whilst remaining absolutely still. In the dim morning light Erestor’s room was shadowy, the vibrant colours muted though still welcoming. Memory returned, bringing with it the grey emptiness of the previous day. The knot of misery started reforming in his stomach, but then he remembered how the night had ended, and his attention was drawn instead to the figure in the bed beside him.  
  
They had sat holding one another for a time after Erestor had finished telling his story, before stretching out on the bed together, talking of generalities. They had shared a few uncertain, almost chaste kisses, but the day had been long and emotional, and the call of sleep irresistible. Elrond had no idea at what point his eyes had finally lost focus, but he had fallen asleep to the sound of a voice that was smooth as brandy, honey-sweet.  
  
Erestor, who must have drawn the bedcover up and over them at some point before himself falling asleep, was lying on his side, his hair an ink-dark shadow falling across his face and shoulder to pool onto the bed. Elrond watched his own hand move up almost of its own volition to lift the straight black hair away from the sleeping face, and suddenly became aware that he was being watched. With no apparent transition, Erestor had shifted from sleep to awareness and was studying him, his expression gravely thoughtful.  
  
“Good morning,” Elrond said softly, gently tugging a lock of silken hair before allowing it to slide through his fingers.  
  
Erestor’s mouth twitched into a smile, and he leaned up on an elbow, touching the Half-elf’s cheek with light fingers. “Good morning to you,” he said softly. “I should have woken you, but I hadn’t the heart. You slept well?”  
  
Elrond looked embarrassed. “I’m sorry I fell asleep on you, I felt like a wall of water struck me. Thank you for letting me stay.”  
  
He received an inscrutable look. “You needed to rest, you were worn out. I somehow don’t think you slept the night before, either… And waking up alone is seldom the best way to begin a difficult day.”  
  
“After yesterday it can only get better,” Elrond said wryly.  
  
Erestor raised an eyebrow. “Oh, it’s been my experience that nothing is ever so bad it can’t get worse,” he said cheerfully. “But at least you don’t have to deal with it on your own now. Whenever you need to talk, I promise to listen.”  
  
He stretched and shook back hair that moved like a fall of silk as he spoke, and their eyes met and held. There was no premeditation, the kiss was something that almost seemed to happen of itself, a movement of heads, a seeking of lips, tentative and exploratory. Then Elrond reached out his arms, drawing Erestor up against him while he deepened the kiss, driven by instincts that moved swiftly from curiosity to desire-laden intent. When they finally paused for breath Erestor watched him for several heartbeats, amber eyes shimmering beneath black lashes. Then, with a small, soft sigh, he relaxed against Elrond, lips parted, and let his head fall back in an unmistakable gesture of surrender.  
  
What followed would afterwards remain tangled in Elrond’s memory, a collage of soft skin, silken hair, husky whispers. Hands investigated the lines of bodies, went further, sought naked flesh, stroked and pressed and clasped. Erestor easily persuaded the Half-elf out of his tunic, unfastening his shirt with dextrous fingers while leaning over in a swathe of hair to place soft kisses upon each newly revealed area of flesh. At the same time his free hand pushed the sleeve of Elrond’s shirt back from his shoulder, his fingers rubbing small, urgent circles against the bared skin.  
  
Elrond, though lacking experience, followed instinct, rolling onto his side and gathering the dark Elf into his arms, kissing him open-mouthed and thoroughly, and feeling heat flood through him at the hungry response of delving tongue and grasping hands. Finally releasing Erestor’s mouth, he tugged at shirt fastenings, breaking at least one, while he offered hot kisses to creamy skin, questing touches of unpracticed fingers. Eventually, with a frustrated hiss, Erestor pulled away from him to kneel up and remove his shirt, dropping it carelessly onto the floor before subsiding bonelessly back onto the bed, his eyes half closed, giving his face a languid, inviting expression.  
  
Unclad, Erestor was quite simply…gorgeous. He was built like a runner, all sleek, unobtrusive muscle under velvet skin, brownish nipples contrasting strongly against his fairness. Elrond, staring, remained unmoving, lost in admiration until strong, slender fingers tangled in his hair, and a whispered, “Yes, of course you can,” answered a question he had not been aware of asking.  
  
He trailed his fingers over yielding flesh, then bent to suck one erect nipple into his mouth, watching as Erestor’s brilliant eyes slowly closed. He worked his tongue over soft skin and peaked hardness, quickly discovering that a sharp flick could draw a response from Erestor akin to the mewling of a kitten, or the soft cry of a bird. It was a sound that somehow seemed to bypass his ears to reach directly to his groin.  
  
Releasing the nipple, he brushed his thumb back and forth across it, watching it harden further in response, feeling the tense heat within him increase at the sensation of swollen wetness under his touch. Turning his attention to its twin, he dipped his head to suckle and nip while his fingers continued to roll and tweak, causing the dark-eyed Elf to give a low, purring moan that made Elrond shiver with desire.  
  
Moving slowly, he kissed a path up Erestor’s long neck, sucking the fair skin hard enough to mark it, before claiming his mouth once more. He kissed Erestor’s cheeks and eyelids, rubbed his lips against the tip of one elegant ear, and was licking the hollow at the base of his throat when Erestor, whose body was beginning to writhe in an instantly recognizable rhythm, reluctantly slowed his movements. Resting a long-fingered hand against Elrond’s cheek, he sighed and then gently pushed. The Half-elf, his eyes dark and not completely focused, looked up questioningly.  
  
“Work,” Erestor explained simply. “If I don’t get up now, I’ll be late… I have to be present for a briefing.”  
  
Elrond stared at him blankly then groaned, dropping his head heavily onto Erestor’s chest. Strong arms went round him and held him for a moment, and a hand stroked his disheveled hair while they both strove to steady their breathing. “Believe me, this is not by choice…” Erestor assured him, before sliding out from under him and trying to sit up. Elrond was faster and reached out for him, catching him by the elbows, but Erestor pulled away with a laughing, if still slightly dazed, shake of his head.  
  
“No, my lord, some of us have to work. I need to dress.” He looked around vaguely as he spoke, as though expecting his room to have changed overnight. While he was distracted, Elrond made a final playful attempt to stop him, catching at his long, black hair as he tried to rise and pulling him back to fall onto the bed. Leaning over Erestor, he held him down by the upper arms, enjoying the way laughter lit his face and knowing that, had he wished to break free, he could have done so with ease.  
  
The fact that Elrond displayed none of the devastated grief that had threatened to consume him the previous night was no surprise to Erestor. A lifetime’s habit of concealed emotions was unlikely to be discarded in one day. He knew the pain was still there, and would have to be faced again when Elrond was alone and undistracted. After a moment’s reflection he decided that he could, after all, afford to be a little late for once.  
  
“What difference will a few minutes make?” the Half-elf was demanding. “Come on, first you have to promise never to call me ‘my lord’ again…”  
  
“You really don’t like that very much, do you?” Erestor wriggled as he spoke, but not as much as he might have. Elrond was looking down at him darkly, and shaking his head.  
  
“You know I don’t like the title,” he said. “No one called me that till I came here – at first it took me a moment to realise I was the ‘lord’ being spoken to…”  
  
Erestor’s eyes flashed amusement. “Believe me, I’m not in the habit of thinking of you as ‘my lord’,” he said dryly. “If I were, the present situation would be totally inappropriate.”

~~~~

They left the pier shortly after Eönwë’s arrival. Gil-galad’s obvious dislike for the Maia surprised Glorfindel, who had become accustomed to the King’s habit of masking his opinions of others with an appearance of distant courtesy. In this case he was polite, but there was an edge to his words and he told Círdan he would keep any further questions until they spoke later. His foster father nodded without comment. Glorfindel had an idea this had happened before.  
  
A visit to the commercial section of the waterfront included the fish market, several warehouses and also a small foundry owned and worked entirely by a family of Dwarves who had known a good business opportunity when they saw one, even if it meant living in an Elven city far from their clan in the Blue Mountains. The King was greeted as an honoured guest, and given a brief tour. After this, he spent upwards of an hour being educated in the benefits and difficulties experienced by Dwarves trading within his kingdom by the owner, a thickset Dwarf with a greying beard, whose name, Glorfindel gathered, was Nýrád.  
  
Discussion concluded, the next stop on Gil-galad’s list turned out to be a tavern, which was another new experience for Glorfindel, there having been nothing resembling inns or public taverns in Gondolin. In fact, there had been no taverns in Nevrast either, he reflected, sitting alone on a bench in a dimly-lit room, a mug containing a honey-brown beverage, enthusiastically recommended by Gil-galad, on the table before him  
  
Gil was on the other side of the room, engrossed in a noisy discussion, punctuated by bursts of raucous merriment, with a group of seamen. Dalbros had gone off with Master Edhelûr, who was proving an excellent source of information about the founding of the town, and Thenin had joined the two warriors who were serving as an unobtrusive escort to the High King. Gil-galad refused to have an official guard, saying it was an insult to his people that he should appear to protect himself from them.  
  
The King finally tore himself away to the accompaniment of much laughter and joking and made his way back to Glorfindel. Settling down on the bench opposite, he drank deeply and leaned back against the wall with a contented sigh, which was seen rather than heard over the sounds of talking, the clatter of plates, and the dissonance of a musical instrument being tuned.  
  
“Now this is nice, isn’t it?” he said in satisfied tones. “Círdan doesn’t approve, of course, but it’s a good place to get to know what people are thinking. I never liked being too precious and set apart, anyway.”  
  
The golden warrior kept his thoughts to himself and nodded. Gil, he had noticed, was quite good at justifying little personal indulgences like this, but he worked hard and was entitled. “You’ve been enjoying yourself today, haven’t you?” he asked instead, amused. “I think all those inspections were just an excuse to meet old friends and share some gossip.”  
  
“I don’t gossip,” Gil-galad informed him flatly, shaking his head. “Much.” He flashed an easy grin. “I like Forlond,” he admitted. “I like the way it’s laid out, the atmosphere… Círdan’s folk followed him to Mithlond at the end of the War, but a lot of the people who fled to Balar during the fighting moved here. It almost feels like coming home for a visit,” he finished, with a slightly embarrassed look.  
  
Glorfindel nodded. He treasured these occasional glimpses into private spaces, storing them up to mull over later, adding another piece to the picture he was building. “It’s less formal here,” he ventured. “Is that what appeals to you?”  
  
Gil-galad’s eyes took on a slightly grim look. “I could live my life just fine without all the formality,” he agreed. “Trouble is, people like to see the trappings of power. I suppose it’s reassuring to know someone’s accountable. Otherwise I wouldn’t bother with it.”  
  
The warrior looked around again. This was probably as informal as a setting got, he decided, sipping his drink. The beverage was unusual, with an almost yeasty smell, and tingled in his mouth not unpleasantly. He gestured with the mug and asked, “What am I drinking, anyway? A specialty from Balar? I’ve never tasted anything like it before.”  
  
“What, this?” Gil-galad’s expressive face lit up. “They call it beer. It’s brewed by the Dwarves from some kind of grain. Nýrád’s brother began importing it and it’s grown so popular we’re considering a trade agreement with his clan. First time I ever tasted it was here.”  
  
The tavern was starting to fill up now, as the working day drew to a close. Thenin and the escort had been forced to change tables to remain beside them. Glorfindel noticed that no one attempted to approach the King, though from the looks turned their way it was clear everyone knew who the visitors were, even though Gil-galad was dressed casually and the two warriors were wearing only the light, leather armour that was common to most fighters. It occurred to him that this was a known pleasure of the King’s, to sit and drink the Dwarf beverage in a tavern and watch normal people going about normal business, and that Forlond was happy to see him doing so.  
  
Gil-galad drank deeply, inclined his head in greeting to someone, then turned back, his eyes serious. “I was proud of you back there. Not often I’ve seen someone refuse to be overawed by Eönwë. Much use it was in the end though. Think he really knows what they want? I wouldn’t put it past him. That bastard has ice water flowing where others have blood.”  
  
Glorfindel blinked at the dislike in the King’s tone, then shook his head. “I don’t think so, no. If he did, I think he would have wanted me to know he hadn’t told me, if that makes sense.”  
  
“Ah,” Gil-galad said, nodding. “Yes, that would be about right for him.”  
  
He sat quietly for a few minutes, gazing into his beer and apparently lost in thought, then said casually, “I was watching one of the patrol ships from the Fleet earlier, and it started me thinking…”  
  
He had been watching a couple, probably courting, who were in their turn watching him, but something in the very casualness caught and focused Glorfindel’s attention. “Oh?”  
  
Gil-galad nodded and said slowly. “The only place I need an attack force right now is on the water, you know. That got me thinking about the army.” He sat back against the wall again, the late sunlight slanting through a nearby window catching his hair and lifting the red lights to view, and he smiled his most disarmingly charming smile before becoming serious again. “We spent all my life taking war to the Enemy, but what we need now is a defensive force. We need warriors who can secure our borders and clear out the Orcs and renegade Men who still threaten the smaller settlements… We need a force trained to protect.”  
  
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table between them. “I know you turned this down before, I know you said you had no wish to fight or send others out to do so. But defense was the whole object of Gondolin, you would understand it far better than any of my senior commanders. You are exactly who I want - someone who can look at the army in its present form and design the changes that would fit it for today’s needs.”  
  
He had been gesturing animatedly with his large, expressive hands while he spoke, and his light blue eyes had been intent, but now his face softened. He gave Glorfindel a look containing more intimacy than could be expressed in public, followed by a smile that was almost a touch.  
  
“It might not be your intended destiny, but it’s work that has to be done. You could pick your own assistants, have a completely free hand. At the end you would present your report to my full council, not privately to me – no grounds this time to accuse me of trying to find something to keep you amused. You don’t have to answer me now,” he added, swallowing down the last of his beer. “Just think about it, that’s all I ask.“

~~~~

Erestor’s day had been too busy to allow for any breaks, to the extent that an apple eaten at his desk had passed for lunch, and it was mid afternoon before he next saw Elrond. He was on his way to speak to the captain of the palace guard when he caught sight of the by now familiar figure, sitting on a bench under a willow tree, his hands resting loosely in his lap as he stared out over the lake. The liveliness of the morning had vanished, replaced by an almost physical sense of stillness. Hurried though he was, Erestor paused for a moment and watched him, considering.  
  
The morning had offered distractions – waking in a strange bed, kisses, caresses, laughter. Since then there would have been time to feel the emptiness of the palace, to note the absence of the dog… Laslech’s loss would be a constant reminder of all that had been taken, and he spared an angry thought for Elros, who could surely have left her behind as consolation of sorts. Like most Elves, Erestor had never had a pet, but had noticed the companionship and comfort Men seemed to gain from them and had certainly enjoyed his interchanges with Laslech.  
  
He resumed walking, with the idea of finishing the current errand and then going back to spend a few minutes with Elrond, and was almost at the barracks’ administrative office when a movement to his right caught his attention. He stood quite still for a moment as an idea presented itself to him, fully detailed and simplicity itself in execution if he was determined enough.  
  
The captain found himself on the receiving end of a brief list of instructions regarding the new, more efficient roster which had been determined by a committee of five bureaucrats and which would almost certainly never work. He was given no chance to argue, but was simply told to present any objections or suggestions in writing, after which the junior advisor left in a swirl of black hair at a pace just short of a run.  
  
Erestor felt sorry for him – he had thought the roster nonsensical himself and had gone prepared to discuss it and make suggestions, but as things now stood that would have to wait for a couple of days. He had arrangements to make.


	21. Chapter 21

It was close to sunset when Gil-galad finally decided to return to Master Edhelûr’s house. The air high above the town was cool and clean, and the trees hissed and rustled and spoke amongst themselves. What they said was closed to Glorfindel, who was a foreigner to these shores, or so the soul of the Forest apparently believed, though he found himself wondering for the first time if Gil-galad, the child of a Sindarin mother, could understand their speech.  
  
When they reached the house, he noticed several members of their party strolling the grounds or sitting out on the wide verandah, while the scents of cooking and the sounds of clattering pots and raised voices greeted them as they passed the kitchen entrance on their way to the stables. Glorfindel handed Carob over to a serious-faced young groom and was following the path round to the front of the house when the King, who had stopped to speak with Thenin, caught up with him and fell into step. Glorfindel gestured back in the direction of the kitchen. “Well, at least it doesn’t sound like we missed dinner.”  
  
“Worked up an appetite, have you?” Gil-galad asked with a grin and a suggestive quirk of his eyebrows. “Beer and good company can do that.”  
  
Glorfindel snorted in answer, then caught sight of something that brought him to a stop, unconsciously placing a hand on Gil-galad’s muscular arm. The object of his attention was Elros, who was deep in conversation with three of the young Men who had travelled from Lindon with him. Glorfindel had never before seen him wearing the style of clothing adopted by Men, and he was startled by the transformation. Close beside him, Gil-galad said quietly, more to himself than to the warrior, “He’s finally cut his hair.”  
  
“What…? Oh yes, of course. But why? It barely reaches his shoulders now.”  
  
His thoughts obviously elsewhere, Gil-galad answered, “Eönwë’s been on at him to look and dress the part, but he’s always resisted till now. I suppose it was finally time...”  
  
Reaching a decision, he looked round for Thenin. “Send someone to ask Lord Elros if he could spare me a few minutes. I’ll be in my rooms.” To Glorfindel he added, “I have a gift for him – and a question that’s needed answering for nearly thirty years.”

~~~~

Gil-galad glanced round at the sound of the door and, with a nod of welcome, gestured for Elros to join him over at the large bay window. After exchanging a greeting, they stood for a few minutes watching the remaining boats on the darkening sea until Gil-galad finally broke the silence. “ Your hair suits you like that. Ready to go then, are you?”  
  
Elros gave a brief laugh. “My last vanity. I held onto it as long as I could. I got Faengil to cut it this afternoon. I’m keeping it tied back for now - when it’s loose it looks wilder than Elrond’s.”  
  
“Faengil?”  
  
“Her father’s been selected as my Treasurer. Anyhow, she says it’ll settle down eventually.”  
  
Gil, whose thigh length hair had never quite ‘settled down’, grunted and nodded noncommittally. Watching a fishing boat on its way into the harbour, he asked, “Checked that everything’s ready? Nothing’s been overlooked?”  
  
Elros raised an eyebrow. “All checked. Eönwë has a list… Everything else will be provided, he says.” His voice was pointedly neutral.  
  
“Yes, well, in your place I’d be trusting my own judgement rather than Eönwë’s list,” Gil-galad said evenly. “I was thinking more about personal items. Mementos, favourite books and the like.”  
  
Elros seemed to think about this. “I have everything I need,” he responded finally. “I had my own list. I brought what I could.”  
  
Gil-galad nodded. “Including the dog, I noticed. I was surprised about that. I assumed you’d be leaving her behind with Elrond.”  
  
Elros rolled his eyes slightly and sighed audibly. “Yes, I know. And yes, he asked me to. The animal was a gift, Gil-galad. Leaving her behind would be insulting, and I’d explained that to him before. Besides, what would be the point? How long do dogs live? Five years? Ten? Less even than horses anyway. How many Elves do you know who keep pets as Men do?”  
  
Gil-galad inclined his head and held his tongue. The honest answer was that one of his councillors had tamed a wolf, several of his acquaintances, surprisingly, kept cats, and Glorfindel was forever fussing over his horse. He was rather taken with the idea of a hunting dog himself. One of the large ones with floppy ears that Men seemed to favour.  
  
Changing the subject, he asked, “You’re not spending the night with your people? No final details to arrange?”  
  
Elros shrugged. “It’s all under control. I wanted to come and share a last meal… Should I not have done this?”  
  
In the early days when Gil-galad started giving his cousin practical lessons in statecraft, Elros had been hesitant and unsure of his judgement. The searching look that now crossed his face was reminiscent of that earlier time. The King’s first instinct was to put an arm around his shoulders as he had done so often in the past and reassure him, but the tension emanating from the Man at his side made him pause. Instead he turned to a nearby table, picked up an item wrapped in black cloth and held it out. “If anyone asks, tell them I invited you. Here, this is for you. Something for the days when you miss home…”  
  
The gift was a small painting, a re-creation of the palace garden that showed the entrance to the apartments he had shared with his brother, done on parchment in glowing colours. It was mounted on thin board, and had an edging of finely beaten gold which framed the picture in warmth. Elros looked down at it, wordless, for a time, then up at Gil-galad out of eyes that were suspiciously bright. “This is beautiful,” he managed finally. “It’s Mebedir’s work, isn’t it?”  
  
Mebedir had been one of the premier artists of the First Age, and had declined the opportunity to sail West at the end of the War and the lifting of the Ban while there was still so much left in Middle-earth to challenge his skill. Gil-galad nodded, coming to stand where he could look over Elros’ shoulder. “He finished it last week. I was starting to worry. Got Glorfindel to ask him to hurry things along, one artist speaking to another. Look, it’s early morning – the door’s open but not the windows, and he’s got the shadow just right… And over here, just off amongst the bushes, one of the kitchen cats…”  
  
They examined the painting together, Gil-galad pointing out features that had impressed him, Elros nodding, his fingers very gently touching the window of what had been his bedroom, the open door, the white rose he had personally planted in memory of his mother. Gil-galad fell silent, watching him and then, keeping his eyes on the fingers lightly tracing the familiar, he asked quietly,  
  
“You didn’t really want to do this, did you? It’s taken you till now to change your hair, your clothes, you’re here tonight, not across town sharing in the excitement… Why are you going, Elros? It makes no sense.”  
  
Elros moved abruptly away from him, away from the deep, reassuring voice, the aura of strength and safety, and found himself looking out over the sea again, at the line of pale, unnatural light reaching from just outside the breakwater to some point in the far West. The green-tinged light was cast by the Silmaril that had been around his mother’s neck the night when the world had changed, the Silmaril now bound round his father’s brow as Eärendil steered Vingilot across the sky. He remembered the great ship clearly from his earliest years, moored at Sirion, sailing off into the sunrise, returning after long absences… And now there it was again, strengthened and hallowed and showing him the road to death.  
  
There was no moment of choice, there was no thought that told him to disregard what he and Elrond had decided over thirty years previously. Without turning his head he said, “Because Eönwë told us we had to do it this way. Because one of us had to pick mortality and one eternal life, and I thought I could do this better than Elrond. Because I am the eldest. Because I didn’t want my brother to die.”  
  
He felt Gil-galad’s stillness, the warning quiet that came so often before a burst of rage that would send people running to do the High King’s bidding, put right the wrong, but they both knew there was no rectifying this. Eönwë had been nothing more than the agent of the Lords of the West and nothing could gainsay their will. Gil-galad said nothing, just put an arm around his shoulders and stood running his fingers gently over the shoulder length hair which only that morning had reached to his hips - smooth, shining Elven hair, unsuitable for a King of Men. Elros gave a tired sigh and moved into the loose embrace, resting his head heavily against his cousin’s shoulder. Closing his eyes, he stood in this final safe haven, allowing the tears to slide silently down his cheeks.

~~~~

Elrond sat on a cushion on the small patio outside his apartment picking at the remains of his dinner while debating a visit to see what, if anything, healers did at night. In the King’s absence there was no organised entertainment in the main courtyard, a discreet search for his companion of the morning had proved fruitless, and he had no intention of spending the night listening to the empty silence.  
  
Accustomed to Laslech's warning bark, he was startled when a figure appeared, soundlessly crossing the grass towards him. Pushing down an instant rush of heated anticipation, he rose, mentally assessing the relative untidiness of the apartment and telling himself to act naturally, just act naturally. "Erestor. I was looking for you earlier. Come inside out of the wind."  
  
Reaching him, Erestor smiled and shook his head, displaying the dimples that were the main reason he normally cultivated a sober expression. Dimples, he had discovered early in life, were seldom taken seriously. Not without a lot of persuasion anyway. “No, not now, thanks. I came to see if I could talk you into sharing an adventure?”  
  
Elrond belatedly registered his visitor was wearing loose pants, a belted tunic and well worn boots. His hair was drawn back from his face in a series of neat little braids, and there was a white-handled knife at his belt. There was a sense of danger about him; he looked somewhat less the efficient administrative assistance, and far more as Elrond remembered him from earlier days.  
  
“Adventure’s always good. What did you have in mind?” he asked. Certainly anything was better than staying in the empty apartment, and there was no one he could think of that he would rather spend the evening with. No one currently available, in any event.  
  
Erestor shook his head, the dancing braids caught by the light shining from the apartment. His smile deepened mischievously. “No, it’s a surprise. How far do you trust me?”  
  
“Trust…?”  
  
Erestor shrugged slightly, and made a vague gesture. “Just a little – I’m not asking you to put your life in my hands or anything like that, just to bring a change of clothing and meet me at the stables. We’re going for a ride.”  
  
Elrond looked at him blankly as thoughts of an intimate evening spent picking up where the morning had left off were replaced by the irresistible lure of curiosity. The Half-elf could never withstand a mystery. “Just a change of clothes? How far are we going?”  
  
Erestor, who had rightly assessed curiosity to be Elrond’s main weakness, shook his head again, his amber eyes sparkling with amusement as he turned to leave. “No clues,” he said with mock firmness. “Don’t even try. Come, get packed. We’ll be waiting for you.”  
  
“We..?” the Half-elf began, but to no avail. He found himself addressing Erestor’s very attractive back view, as he went off across the garden, blending with the darkness in moments.  
  
Elrond dressed warmly, tied back his hair, fastened on his sword, and discarded the current court wear of embroidered slippers in favour of sensible boots. He shoved a clean tunic and leggings and an extra cloak into a woven bag that had belonged to Elros, and which for some reason had been left behind, and made his way down to the stables. He was surprised and intrigued to discover a small military escort were already mounted and waiting – not trainees, he noted as he passed them, but four experienced warriors, no doubt personally selected by Erestor, whose authority as a junior military advisor probably stretched as far as safeguarding the person of the King’s cousin.  
  
Erestor was waiting with their horses. He held out his hand for the bag. “I can put that in with mine, there’s space,” he suggested.  
  
“An escort?” Elrond asked, handing it over. “Where are we going that we need an armed escort? What are you up to? Come, Erestor, tell.”  
  
Erestor flashed him a grin, widely amused. “Not a word. I told you, it’s a surprise. And the escort is because you’re close family to the King, and I would be remiss in not paying attention to your safety.”  
  
“Erestor…”  
  
Erestor gave his pack a final tug to check all was secure and, nodding in satisfaction, mounted his horse in a smooth, graceful motion that sent a tingle of desire through Elrond. He looked down at the Half-elf and indicated the waiting horse. “Come on, the night isn’t getting any younger. The sooner we leave, the sooner you’ll know where we’re going.”

~~~~

“What do you mean, you knew? How could you know something like that and not tell me?”  
  
Glorfindel placed his hand over Gil-galad’s mouth to quieten him before the too-familiar voice drew attention. “What did you expect me to do? Elrond told me in confidence. I could hardly run and tell you. I could only hope one of them would eventually show some sense. Of course you had a right to know – but it wasn’t my story to tell, Gil.”  
  
They were in Glorfindel’s room, lying naked and entwined in the small bed, talking. Gil-galad had been playing with Glorfindel’s long, blonde hair, while the warrior lay wrapped half around him with his head on the royal shoulder. After Gil-galad’s solitary night with the wine flagon and Glorfindel’s ultimatum, the King had suggested they try using the time before lovemaking to share the events of the day. To begin with it had seemed forced and uneasy, but they had persevered and the chance to talk and laugh as they started to relax before pleasure took hold of them was becoming something they both looked forward to.  
  
They soon found that there were different levels of sharing, and each had its place. The time after love, on the edge of sleep, was when deep confidences and heart-held secrets were slowly starting to be alluded to, and was becoming the place where trust was built, but the early part of the evening was for friendship. This was where they wove the fabric of their day together, drawing ever closer as they exchanged insights and explored their likes and dislikes and started to form opinions held in common as a couple  
  
Glorfindel had been lying tracing his fingers lazily across Gil-galad’s broad chest, listening to him talk about people they had met during the day, where he had known them from, mainly stories about Balar, a place he had seldom mentioned before. Presently, after a thoughtful silence during which Glorfindel placed a couple of enquiring kisses along his jaw line, the King began to confide the details of his conversation with Elros. His response to Glorfindel’s confession that he had known about Eönwë’s ‘choice’ for some time was predictable.  
  
Outrage expressed, Gil-galad settled back against the pillows with a sigh. Glorfindel leaned over him, looking down, concern in his summer-blue eyes. “I told Elrond he should tell you,” he said, tracing a finger over Gil-galad’s top lip and then bending to kiss him softly. “He said at the time you were an unknown quantity – they had no reason to believe you would do anything. After, when they knew you better, they worried you would feel responsible. They didn’t want to upset you, Gil, that’s all.”  
  
Gil-galad wrapped a skein of golden hair round his wrist and pulled the blonde down into a more thorough kiss, open-mouthed, tongues tasting experimentally before twining slickly against one another. Glorfindel slid over him, taking his weight on his elbows so that they were lying skin to skin and cupped Gil’s face with his hand as they moulded against one another, savouring the closeness.  
  
The kiss ended in its time, and Gil lay holding Glorfindel loosely, stroking his hair, his eyes still troubled. “It was wrong, Glaur. They were hardly more than children, their lives had been turned inside out from the day their mother…left. There was no choice involved in this…”  
  
Glorfindel hushed him with another kiss. “It was wrong,” he agreed. “I thought Elrond was exaggerating till I met Eönwë, but…he fits the description. There really is nothing you could have done, Gil. Nothing at all.”  
  
He kissed Gil-galad again, and the heat began to build within him as the King’s burgeoning hardness grazed his hip. He started moving slowly and rhythmically, grinding his erection against solid muscle in invitation, and began to trace his tongue along the line of Gil-galad’s ear. The King, however, wasn’t finished. “What do you mean, I could have done nothing?” he demanded, moving his head away. “I could have gone straight back and told that reptile that they were to have time to make up their minds – from what Elros tells me it was almost blackmail…”  
  
Glorfindel sighed and shook him firmly by the shoulder. “And that would have achieved what?” he asked. “The will of the Valar is not something likely to be left to the preference of two young Half-elves, I’d think. It had little to do with choice, Gil,” he added more gently. “I think this was all decided from the moment Dior’s daughter and Idril’s son conceived twin boys. Nothing could have changed it.” While he spoke, he was kissing the King’s neck, punctuating the words with light nips.  
  
Gil-galad sighed and nodded, and submitted to the mouth on his throat and the insistent hand roving over his arm and shoulder. He began to move his hips, shifting so that his sex rubbed steadily against Glorfindel’s erect cock, grunting in satisfaction as the blonde twined a leg under his, and began moving his pelvis in unhurried circles in response. Glorfindel gave his throat one final nip, then returned to his mouth, claiming it hungrily.  
  
They lay on the narrow bed in the quiet room, kissing and murmuring and running their hands over each other’s bodies. Glorfindel took the lead this time, alternating between kisses that were deep and passionate and pauses to lick Gil’s mouth or languidly swipe his tongue across eyelids, nose, the little groove between lower lip and chin. Finally they reached the point where their writhing bodies were smeared wetly across stomach and hip and thigh with the precum from hardened arousals, and their breathing had been reduced to hurried gulps of air between kisses. Gil-galad tightened his arm around Glorfindel and made as though to turn him over onto his back but the blonde broke the kiss, pulling his mouth free to gasp, “No, you stay, you relax and enjoy, let me…”  
  
Reaching over to the nightstand, he sought and found the little jar of multi-purpose salve he had begun keeping handy. It was apparently good for dry lips or for abrasions caused by all manner of daily mishaps, but it was also, he had discovered, wonderfully slick and not quickly absorbed. Claiming a generous amount on his fingers, he straddled Gil’s thighs, smiling as his eyes roved over the King’s powerful body. Wrapping a steadying hand round the base of Gil-galad’s thick sex, he applied the salve, doing so at a leisurely pace and being careful not to work it into the skin. His chuckled wickedly as the hard flesh in his hand twitched and Gil-galad closed his eyes and groaned and shifted under his touch.  
  
Methodically returning the jar to the nightstand, even though the grip of hands on his arse had tightened demandingly, he knelt looking down at Gil, his eyes serious, his face intent. Their gazes locked, and the blonde reached behind, grasping his cheeks and spreading himself open. Gil slid a hand down to grasp and guide his arousal to press against Glorfindel’s tight entrance. The warrior sank slowly back and down, feeling the painful pressure and resistance, then the sudden, burning fullness as he was breached and entered.  
  
He tried to relax his muscles, accepting the invading hardness into himself, while watching Gil-galad’s face tense almost as though with pain as he slowly lowered himself inch by inch onto his cock. Glorfindel let his head fall back as he took the King in deeper, drawing in gasps of air as he was stretched and filled. Finally, with a groan that was echoed by his lover, he was sitting flat on his lap, thighs spread widely, aware of little besides the thick, pulsing hardness thrust up deep within him, the throbbing tension of his own jutting erection, and the crisp dark curls at the base of the Gil-galad’s sex that brushed erotically against his cheeks.  
  
He began to rock back and forth, concentrating on the sensation within him of rod-like hardness and rising, swirling heat. Gil, panting softly, had his hands resting on Glorfindel’s hips, but soon he reached to grasp his sex, closing a large, hard hand around it and beginning to stroke in time to Glorfindel’s movements, rubbing his thumb across the slit and spreading the leaking fluid he found there over the plum-shaped head and under the sensitive rim.  
  
Glorfindel slid his hands up Gil’s body, ghosting them over ribcage and chest and shoulders to brace them on the pillow on either side of the King’s head. He began to ride him in earnest then, taking the slick, solid flesh deep within him and gritting his teeth as each downward lunge brought Gil’s cock into contact with his prostate, making him jerk his head back in a swirl of golden hair and hiss with pleasure. The world shrank and time seemed to stop, then finally Gil's eyes closed and he gave a growling cry, grasping the sheet convulsively as he came with a final series of plunging thrusts, releasing deep within Glorfindel.  
  
The blonde warrior leaned forward, panting, resting his forehead briefly against Gil-galad’s. He was about to move onto his side, but the King’s steadying hand on his hip stopped him. Glorfindel sat up slowly, obedient to his touch, and looked at him in confusion. His fair hair hung in a tangle over his face and shoulders, his eyes looked dazed, the pupils dark and large, and he was breathing hard. Sweat streaked his face and chest. Gil-galad drew his knees up and said quietly, “Lean back against my legs, go on. This won’t take long, I think.”  
  
Making a low, moaning sound in his throat Glorfindel leaned back, Gil’s erection still inside him. Gil-galad reclaimed his lover’s by-now aching sex and resumed stroking him firmly and quickly, running his other hand over sweat-streaked thigh and hip, murmuring softly, “Come on then sweetheart, your turn now, don’t think of anything, just come, just come.”  
  
Glorfindel’s breathing began to hitch raggedly, and then stopped as his body went motionless save for the trembling in his thighs. Raising a hand to his mouth and pressing the knuckles against his teeth to keep from crying out, he came, leaning up into the King’s grasp, creamy, viscous cum pumping over Gil-galad’s stomach. When his lover’s hand slowed and stopped, and the other moved to his waist, Glorfindel slid forward into Gil-galad’s arms and all but collapsed onto him, burying his face in his neck with a final, shuddering groan.

~~~~

“Just don’t fall asleep – you need to be back in your room before dawn.”  
  
Gil-galad settled more comfortably against Glorfindel, nuzzling his face into golden hair with a satisfied sigh. “No, I’m not going to sleep,” he promised. “I just want to lie with you a while before I go back, that’s all. Talk to me, keep me awake.”  
  
Glorfindel grunted, wriggling slightly against the warmth at his back as they lay spooned together under the light covers. The room was etched in a strange, otherworldly light that was creeping in through the thin drapes now that the lamp had been extinguished. “What do you want to talk about?” he muttered, struggling against the urge to sleep that tended to overwhelm him shortly after love.  
  
The arm around his waist tightened. “Anything. It’s too bright to sleep, anyway. And it’s probably worse in the front where my room is.”  
  
Glorfindel grunted in acknowledgement, then sighed. “What time do we have to be at the quayside tomorrow?” he asked.  
  
“Mid afternoon as I understand it,” Gil-galad replied. “Círdan wanted to leave about two hours before sunset so they could get well away from the coastline and out to sea before it grew dark – or as dark as it’s likely to get.”  
  
“Mph.” Glorfindel fell silent, distracted for a while by the sound of birds calling in the middle of the night. “Listen to them, they think it’s already dawn.”  
  
“That light disrupts everything,” Gil-galad grumbled. “There’s been no time for the animals to adjust to it, they don’t know if it’s day or night anymore.”  
  
The golden warrior nodded, his thoughts already drifting as he attempted to evade sleep. ”Oh yes, animals. Did you ask Elros about Laslech? The poor dog’s totally bewildered.”  
  
“Yes, I mentioned her, I think it’s a bit of a sore point with him actually. Elrond apparently asked if he could keep her.”  
  
“Oh?” Glorfindel looked over his shoulder, curious. “What happened?”  
  
“He said she was a gift, he couldn’t leave her behind. He has a point I suppose. Plus, dogs seldom live even twenty years, you know. When she dies he’d be reminded of all this again. With Elros – well, she’ll be a tie to his brother and the time will seem longer too.”  
  
Glorfindel frowned, his face thoughtful. "But when she dies the last tie to Elrond will die with her.” He yawned and stretched a little, then turned over awkwardly in the narrow space and settled his head on Gil’s shoulder. “And it would be a very pointed reminder of his own mortality. Elrond on the other hand… I think he might feel she trusted him and he failed her."  
  
He lay playing absently with an ebony braid, running it through his fingers over and over. Finally he rubbed his cheek softly against Gil-galad's shoulder, giving the hair a light tug and Gil, who had been staring up at the ceiling with unseeing eyes, turned his head to look down at him. “What?”  
  
“Those who died in Gondolin – my people, the ones who looked to me as their Lord? It’s like mist, I can only see little things clearly, a face, a moment… I think it’s because I’m not ready to deal with it, so they’re just lost there…in the mist. Do you think I’ve failed them by not trying harder to remember it all?”  
  
“Sweetheart?” Gil-galad turned to look at him properly. Glorfindel sighed again, then slid an arm and leg over the King, hitching himself closer, and rested his forehead in the curve of his lover’s neck.  
  
“I don’t think I’m strong enough to remember,” he muttered, his voice muffled against Gil-galad. “And they deserve better than this, all the ordinary people who died there. If I don’t remember them, who will?”  
  
Gil-galad held him, stroking his back gently. “But you remembered enough to be able to tell Elrond about Gondolin,” he said quietly. “I know because he told it to Elros as he’d heard it from you, and Elros mentioned it to me. And Elros takes the tale across the sea with him, and one day he will have children and he will tell them the story of the Hidden City and her people and of their great-grandparents… And of the golden warrior who bought their lives with his own. And they will tell their children, and so the story of the lost realm will carry down the ages, far away across the sea. And here as well, Elrond will take the same tale and tell it…”  
  
He paused, settling them both more comfortably, smiling to himself as Glorfindel’s breathing slowed towards sleep. He tidied back long, golden hair, then bent his head to kiss the blonde softly on the forehead. “They would ask no more than that of you, sweetheart mine. You have already given them so much."


	22. Chapter 22

The dawn was bitterly cold, though the clear sky spoke of an unseasonably fine day ahead. The ground was soaked with dew and the Elves’ breath misted white on the air before them. After riding through the night, Erestor had called a halt at a roadside clearing, suggesting it would be a good place for the escort to make camp and wait while he and Lord Elrond were elsewhere occupied. He offered no further explanation but waited till the fire was burning properly and then set about making tea with quiet efficiency.   
  
Elrond sat cross-legged before the fire, long-lashed grey eyes slitted against the smoke. He stared unblinkingly into the flames, absently tidying his hair while he waited. At some point in the night he had finally reached a compromise with the unruly dark mass, fastening a generous amount back from his face to hang in a thick braid down his back while leaving the rest free. It was a style he would eventually adopt almost permanently.   
  
He kept quiet for as long as he could, having developed the suspicion that the more questions he asked the more Erestor was laughing at him, but eventually it became more than he could stand. “All right, so we’re meeting someone here. Are they late, are we early or are we going to spend the next few days camped here? If that’s the case, you’ll excuse me if I catch up on my sleep rather than keep you amused?”  
  
The pot began to boil and Erestor moved it carefully to a flat stone beside the fire before adding tea from a small pouch and sitting back on his heels to wait for it to infuse. He looked across at Elrond from under thick black lashes and smiled very sweetly. “I told you it was meant to be a surprise. You’ll understand soon. We made good time and we’re a little earlier than planned.”  
  
Elrond sighed and moved over to join him. “All right. We rode through the night to be on time for something… or someone. Now we’re early and we’re going to do what? Sit here and drink tea and wait?”  
  
Erestor nodded cheerfully. “Yes, that’s about right. You catch on really fast, don’t you?”  
  
Elrond pushed him sharply though without rancour. “I used to think that,” he agreed. “ Of course that was before I blindly followed you out into the night. If I was so smart, I’d have given that a bit more thought.”  
  
The long ride had in fact been an excellent opportunity to think, while at the same time reducing the inclination to dwell too morbidly on his personal catalogue of loss. He had explored memories of his brother and of his parents, and had spent the best part of an hour wondering what might have become of Maglor based upon the rumours he had carefully pretended not to listen to, but this had all been balanced by a sense of anticipation and overwhelming curiosity. He assumed this had been at least part of Erestor’s intention.  
  
The tea had been poured and they were sipping it when Erestor suddenly raised his head and sat very still as though listening, after which his face warmed into an anticipatory smile. One of the warriors half rose, but Erestor caught his eye and shook his head and he relaxed again. Centuries later when Elrond encountered the mortal belief that his kind could appear and disappear at will, he would remember that early morning alongside the road and the way that, without warning, the empty clearing suddenly filled with Elves.   
  
Erestor reached out a hand before he could give voice to his confusion and drew Elrond to his feet. Indicating a tall Elf with red-brown hair, he explained, “This is Araslagor, leader of my Company. He has given permission for us to pass the day with them.”  
  
The tall Elf approached them, dark grey eyes glittering in the half light, and placed a hand over his heart, inclining his head gravely. “Elrond Eärendilion, you are welcome amongst us. If we could leave at once? Time grows short, and we wish to be in Forlond by midday.”

~~~~

The day that Elros and his people were due to leave for the New Land got off to a bad start for Gil-galad. He woke spooned up against the warmth of Glorfindel and had lain content for the few minutes it took before he realised he was in Forlond, he was not in his own bed and it was probably almost time for breakfast. He had already dressed and kissed his sleepy and slightly confused lover good morning before he thought to open the drapes and look out the window, to discover that what he had thought to be morning light came mainly from Vingilot. It now hung so low above the sea that the shape of the great ship could almost be discerned.   
  
He breathed a sigh of relief and headed for the door, ready with a story about an early morning walk should he encounter anyone other than his personal guard. As he was leaving, a drowsily amused voice from the bed told him, “I warned you not to fall asleep. I’ll see you after the hunt.”  
  
He would have liked to ask what hunt, but the door was already open and anyway Glorfindel had turned over and was settling back into sleep.  
  
He reached his rooms more or less simultaneously with his early morning tea, brought to him by Medliel who, since his arrival in Círdan’s household all those many years ago, had taken care of him with the same common sense affection she showed her three sons. “Overslept,” he replied to her cheerful query as to why he was up so early. He wondered if others found his own early morning good humour irritating, too. “That damn light kept me awake most of the night.”   
  
She knew where he had been, of course. She knew all about him and Glorfindel. At home the tea was left in the sitting room after a discreet knock on the bedroom door. She never referred to the relationship, and neither did he. He preferred not to know if she disapproved as much as Círdan did. He supposed it was likely.   
  
After requesting a large breakfast to set him up for a long and tiring day, full of speeches and high words – and Eönwë, who he would have to remember not to attempt to throttle on sight – he drank his tea in moody silence, thinking back over the previous night’s conversations with both Elros and Glorfindel.   
  
Hot water was brought for washing, after which, pulling a face at the ornate formal robes that had been laid out for him, he dressed casually in loose pants and a plain shirt until it was time to leave. His hair was a more complicated matter and he spent some time carefully twisting and knotting it into the style, popular long before his birth, which he favoured for public occasions. Finally, after searching through the small selection of jewels that had been brought along for him, he circled his brow with mithril set with dark blue sapphires, a crown that had apparently been favoured by Fingolfin.   
  
The day, however, continued as it had begun. The relaxing interlude ended when a knock at the door, which he thought heralded breakfast, announced instead the arrival of Thenin carrying the obligatory collection of papers for him to read and approve. His assistant looked at him in surprise.  
  
“Aren’t those clothes a little – unusual – for a council meeting, Sire?”   
  
Gil-galad looked at him blankly. He had a faint memory of Thenin outlining the schedule for the day and of nodding agreement, his attention elsewhere. Thenin was good with dry detail and the King tended to leave him to get on with it. This approach worked better on some occasions than others.  
  
“You agreed to attend a meeting of Master Edhelûr’s council this morning,” Thenin reminded him. “The full council, plus a number of senior trades people. After which…”  
  
“I saw every trader I had any need to talk to yesterday, and as for Edhelûr’s council, they’re his concern, not mine. I get the reports, I read them, he does an excellent job, that’s all I need to know about it.”   
  
“After which,” Thenin continued as though he had not been interrupted, “you are expected to join them for a light lunch. You will spend the afternoon down at the harbour, of course, attending the formal farewell and watching the ships sail. Then this evening there is a formal dinner in your honour which will be attended by the town’s dignitaries and their families.”   
  
“Damn it, Thenin, this was meant to be a break from work, not one long round of formalities…”  
  
Thenin, who knew how to manage his King, was adamant. “I’m sorry, Sire, but this was all arranged well in advance – and presented to you in comprehensive detail, I might add. If you absent yourself now, it will be regarded as a slight.”  
  
Gil-galad grumbled but, with no one to blame but himself, was forced to somewhat gracelessly concede defeat. To make matters worse, he had to watch those unencumbered by responsibility ride out to take part in the alternate activity arranged for the morning, namely a boar hunt. The sight of sunlight glinting off golden hair did nothing for his mood. Even his lover had deserted him. Growling softly at his unsympathetic assistant, he exchanged the crown for a simple gold circlet, hid his clothing under a comfortable old surcoat and prepared to work.  
  
As Thenin was well aware, the day to day business of running a large town always interested the King and he was soon immersed in ideas to extend the farmlands and plans regarding increased trade with settlements beyond the borders of Lindon. Nýrád was also present to put forward the intriguing possibilities of expanding trade with the Dwarf realm in the south-east, which had been Master Edhelûr’s main reason for seeking Gil-galad’s presence at the meeting. Only the King had the authority to approve trade outside the borders of Lindon.  
  
It proved a pleasant morning. Gil-galad believed that these smaller, more mundane concerns were what built a strong, secure kingdom, far more so than wars and mighty deeds. He suspected that his illustrious predecessors might not have agreed, though he had recently been quietly pleased to discover that Glorfindel certainly did.

~~~~

Shortly after lunch and dressed in the more formal trappings of his rank - heavy blue robes overlaid with intricate silver embroidery - Gil-galad rode through town at the head of a procession made up of his nobles, Master Edhelûr’s councillors and other leading citizens of Forlond. When they reached the harbour, they found that many of the ships were still awaiting their chance to come alongside the quay and take on board crates and bags and furniture and even livestock from the wagons that trundled in a steady stream down the path to the water’s edge. There were people milling around everywhere, both Elves and Men, some working, others waiting for the formalities to begin.   
  
The noise was remarkable.  
  
The guests’ horses were taken with smooth efficiency by members of Master Edhelûr’s household, sent ahead for that purpose. The King’s party were conducted away from the traffic and up hastily constructed wooden steps to seating in a casual though exquisite shelter of silk and tapestries. Edhelûr had shown his usual attention to detail, right down to small tables bearing plates of pastries and dried fruits and jugs of a highly popular pale, sweet wine.  
  
Finding himself walking next to Dalbros, who was scribbling awa

y with graphite on board in a harried attempt to take notes, Gil-galad remarked, “You’d hardly say it was the same quiet place we visited yesterday, would you, Master Dalbros?”  
  
“Sheep!” Dalbros responded in an amazed voice, barely noticing to whom he was speaking. “They are taking sheep with them? Ah, that would be for the wool of course...” He hurriedly made another note.  
  
Gil-galad turned to watch the uncertain progress of the sheep, his lips twitching with amusement. Perhaps, he thought, reconciling himself to the extreme discomfort of a throne-like, high backed chair, the afternoon would be less tiresome than expected.

~~~~

The ceremony followed a predictable pattern: speeches, a long monologue from Eönwë on the wonders awaiting the travellers to the New Land, a respectful response from Elros who disclosed a gift for making carefully rehearsed replies sound spontaneous and sincere, more speeches… Other than declarations of war – and dubious oaths – experience had taught Glorfindel it was quite safe to ignore the sort of wordy politeness produced at formal gatherings. He had no part to play in the proceedings, and was occupying himself with watching the other guests’ attempts to look awake and interested.

Gil-galad sat straight and alert, apparently giving each speaker his full attention, occasionally nodding in agreement at some sentiment expressed. Glorfindel very much doubted that he was hearing more than one word in ten. Círdan looked tired. Rumour had it he had been up all night, conferring with his mariners and double checking Eönwë’s instructions. Edhelûr looked satisfied and relaxed, his town having acquitted itself admirably. As for Elros… the King of Númenor’s face had remained blandly expressionless, though his eyes betrayed tension.   
  
Glancing over at him, Glorfindel was just in time to see Elros’ face suddenly soften, touched by a smile that began in his eyes. Following the general direction of his gaze, the blonde scanned the crowd. After a few moments he caught sight of the familiar and utterly unlikely figure of Galadriel standing amongst yet slightly apart from the crowd. As he watched, she raised her hand to her forehead in greeting and salute and nodded to Elros, smiling in return.   
  
No one else seemed to have noticed. Leaving his seat, Glorfindel moved quietly to the side of the pavilion and dropped lightly to the ground. As he made his way through the crowd, he wished he had some way to cover his distinctive hair. He hoped that when his absence was noticed it would be assumed that he had either gone to relieve himself or else had become bored with the endless formalities.  
  
She was watching the company in the pavilion, an eyebrow slightly raised in a cynical expression that he remembered from childhood. Círdan had begun speaking in a slow, carrying voice that suggested he intended to continue for some time. A glance at Gil-galad’s expressionless face and still form confirmed this. The King was present in body only at this point. He had probably already heard portions of the speech rehearsed several times.  
  
The blonde almost managed to catch Galadriel unawares, but she looked around at the last moment, her eyes widening slightly in surprise. He threaded his way between a small family, a husband and wife and three children who were torn between respectfully paying attention to the speeches and excited speculation as to which would be ‘their’ ship, and joined Finarfin’s daughter in leaning against the side of a storage shed.  
  
“What are you doing here?” he asked, made blunt by concern. “Where’s…Celeborn?” It took him a moment to call up the name. He had not yet had the chance to meet the Sinda.  
  
Galadriel treated him to a bland look. “Nice to see you as well, cousin. At home I very much hope. This held little interest for him, so I came alone. It’s a lovely trip down the coast on the ferry. Have you tried it yet?”  
  
“You can’t travel alone like that, it’s…it’s dangerous!” He knew he was defeated before he even opened his mouth, but he felt compelled to try.  
  
Eternally self-assured, Galadriel chuckled. “Of course I can. The babe’s not due for at least another month, and it’s by far the safest way to travel – there were at least four members of the palace guard on board, in fact. What could possibly go wrong?” She looked at the uncertainty written large on his face and her tone softened. “It was quite safe, my dear. A quiet sail could do the babe no harm, I would never do anything to put him at risk. And I am fit and strong and well able to take care of myself; I’m pregnant, after all, not ill.”   
  
“But why…?” Galadriel was impulsive, he knew, but she never did anything without a reason.  
  
Her eyes darkened and her face grew serious. “So many here to see them leave, so many who want to be able to tell their children they saw the sailing of the Secondborn to Númenor… I wanted Melian’s kinsman to know someone had taken the trouble to be here for him alone, to wish him good journey and watch him sail. Other than Ereinion, I doubt there is anyone else here he feels close to.” She paused, looking westward across the sea. “Such a brave thing he does,” she added softly. “He deserves to know someone cares.”  
  
Glorfindel had been unaware she knew Elros all that well, but he certainly agreed with her sentiments. “You know the reason why he and Elrond are following different paths then? Did Elros tell you? Gil-galad only found out last night…he’s - not pleased.”  
  
“Oh, no one had to tell me anything. I never imagined there had been any kind of choice involved,” she said with a slight shrug. “Elrond has abilities that are the heritage of Melian’s line; that power belongs amongst us. Elros…” She turned from the sea to him, her face sad. “He has other gifts. He will make a great king.”  
  
He nodded silently, remembering Elrond describing that afternoon on the beach with Eönwë and the way Elros had taken charge. One thought led to another. “Nerwen, I’m sorry about Elrond, about the training,” he said hesitantly. He had never crossed Galadriel’s will before.  
  
She slanted an unreadable glance at him, then shrugged and said evenly, “We must each listen to our heart’s wisdom. We shall see what comes of it. No doubt it will all fit in admirably with Their plan.”

Before she could pass any uncomfortable comments on the less likeable aspects of the Shining Ones, Glorfindel hastily changed the subject. “Have you any idea what the crossing will be like? I don’t think I understand what they mean about the way being hidden…?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Anything would be better than the road we survived to reach here, would it not? I believe they sail to a point where there are strange mists and ghostly noises and the waves are huge. They face a few hours of turbulence and careful sailing and then a calm journey into the Uttermost West.”

“How do you know that?” An icy chill ran down his spine as he considered the possibilities. He had no idea of the extent of her power, or how far her mind could range.  
  
She guessed his thoughts and gave an unladylike snort of laughter. “I asked one of Círdan’s mariners of course. How else? I like to know how things work, remember.”   
  
He had barely nodded acknowledgement, his face flushed with embarrassment, when she was distracted by a particularly large wagon making its way down to the edge of the quay. “Oh look at the size of that one. I wonder what it carries.” Suddenly all eager curiosity, she turned to him, her eyes sparkling. “Come, let’s go and look.”  
  
Glorfindel tried to point out that the footing was rough and that she needed to take care, and that this was probably a good time to go and join Gil-galad in the pavilion, but his arm was taken in a firm grasp and he was forced to join her in hurrying alongside the road down which the wagons still moved. “Oh do stop fussing, Findel, I’m fine. And why would I want to go and join Ereinion in pretending to listen to Círdan trying to out-bore Eönwë? And don’t tell me you aren’t interested in ships. All males love ships.”  
  
As ever, there was no arguing with her.  
  
Most of the attention was on the pavilion and the dignitaries gathered there, and little heed was paid to the tall, strikingly blonde couple as they made their way along the quay. Glorfindel soon found them excellent seats atop bales of hay on an unattended cart. Galadriel was forced to put aside her independence for once and allow him to help her up.  
  
“I think this might all belong to Elros.” Glorfindel recognised a few items of furniture from the private wing of the palace as well as several pieces he had noticed on the journey to Forlond. “Fit for a king’s household anyway.”   
  
Nodding, Galadriel sat swinging her feet lightly, watching the calm, blue-grey water and the ships jostling close to the quay. Eventually she turned her attention back to her cousin. “Who was the young girl I saw him talking to earlier? With the pretty brown hair. Do you know?”  
  
“I think her name’s Faengil,” Glorfindel replied after a moment’s consideration. “She’s the daughter of his Treasurer. Why do you ask?”  
  
She shook her head, her eyes distant. “I just wondered. She seemed to fit well with him, and she looked like a sweet child. He deserves kindness.”  
  
They sat together on the cart in the clear winter sunshine and watched the assortment of items being wrestled into place over the side of the ship. From the shouts being exchanged between crew and shore workers it appeared the wagon had been delayed and the ship should have been loaded long since. In the background Círdan’s voice droned on, while in counterpoint they could hear the murmur of the crowd, the swell of the ocean, creaking wood and crying gulls. Glorfindel felt unexpectedly peaceful and at ease, and rather as though he were playing truant. Not that he had much experience of that. He had been a dutiful child. According to her admiring brothers, Galadriel had been a complete terror.  
  
She placed her hand on his arm. “Findel, look! Why is Elrond’s dog going with them? Rather an extreme gift surely?”  
  
Laslech was being hoisted off the wagon as she spoke. The dog was curled up on the floor of the cage and her whimpering carried clearly to them. She must have been terrified, Glorfindel realised. Rather like Elros, he supposed. “She was a present to Elros,” he explained. “I don’t think he has much interest in dogs – Elrond took a liking to her and she adopted him. Elros refused to leave her behind, he felt it would imply he didn’t value the gift. I asked Gil to speak to him about it, but…”  
  
Galadriel’s total outrage surprised him. “What absolute nonsense!” she exclaimed. “Since I arrived in Lindon, I don’t know that I’ve ever seen Elrond without her. Really, I would have expected Ereinion to have made a bit more of an effort to persuade Elros…”  
  
“I think he had other things on his mind, Nerwen,” Glorfindel cut in, quick to defend his lover from the implied criticism. She threw him a glance dripping with scorn.   
  
“I rather expect a king to be able to focus on more than one matter at a time,” she retorted.   
  
What Glorfindel might have said next was swallowed in a round of polite applause; Círdan had finally finished speaking. Instead of returning to his seat, however, he left the pavilion. Glorfindel glanced at Galadriel, his eyebrows raised and she shrugged. “Probably needs to give some last minute instructions,” she suggested. “The more I get to know him the more I realise he would never delegate anything he could reasonably expect to see to himself.”  
  
“Like you, in other words?” Glorfindel asked blandly, his face expressionless. She punched him amiably in the ribs, rather harder than he might have expected.   
  
“Like me I suppose, yes,” she admitted. “I drive Celeborn insane. He keeps saying he cannot see the point of us having servants as I have such a compulsion to do everything myself.” She looked suddenly almost ordinary and rather endearing as she added, “I like seeing to things for him, sewing on buttons and the like. Taking care of him. I’ve never had someone to take care of before.”  
  
Glorfindel impulsively slid an arm around her waist. “I’m sure he loves every minute of it,” he said affectionately. “He must be exceptional. I look forward to meeting him.”  
  
“My brothers weren’t too impressed.” Her expression was momentarily wistful. Of all Finarfin’s children, only his daughter had survived the vicissitudes of life in Arda.   
  
Glorfindel gave her a sympathetic hug. “Your brothers adored you and thought no one good enough for you,” he reminded her. “Had there been time, I’m sure they’d have approved, especially once they saw how happy you were with him. You are happy, aren’t you?” The old Glorfindel would never have dared ask such a question, even of someone he was as close to as Galadriel.  
  
She gave a laughing sigh and returned his hug. “Yes cousin, I’m very happy with him. We fight like cat and dog of course, but that’s to be expected. We both have strong wills and stronger ideas – and somewhat different views on the world. But we’ve become rather good at compromise.”  
  
“My lady, I had no idea you were expected. His Majesty mentioned nothing to me.” Cirdan, wearing his formal best and looking none too comfortable in it, had arrived beside them unnoticed. He looked vaguely shocked, which Glorfindel thought was a reasonable response to discovering royalty sitting on a bale of hay.  
  
Galadriel looked at him with complete equanimity, though her nails digging into Glorfindel’s arm were a stern instruction that he resist the impulse to get down until she was ready. “A spur of the moment decision, one I’m afraid I neglected to discuss with Ereinion. It never occurred to me that I might need his permission to watch this – unique event.” She had her head tilted slightly to one side, her expression all polite concern. Glorfindel surreptitiously kicked her in an attempt to make her behave.   
  
Círdan, however, had lived a very long time and was not about to be intimidated by Gil-galad’s unconventional aunt. “I was merely concerned that Master Edhelûr would feel he had been negligent in not arranging seating for you,” he explained reasonably. “I assume you came by sea? In that case, too, he would have wished to provide you with a suitable escort from the dock…”  
  
Galadriel flicked her eyelashes at him, but decided there was no sport to be had here. “As I said, I decided this on a whim. No one expected me. Glorfindel merely spotted me in the crowd and came to keep an eye on me.”  
  
She slid down off the cart unaided, all grace and golden hair and sweetly feminine smiles, and accepted the arm the aged Telerin offered. She paused to watch the last few boxes being loaded, while from the ship itself they could all hear the sound of sharp, concerned barking. Glancing at Glorfindel, she said, “Perhaps you should go on ahead and give them a few minutes to arrange a seat for me – and can you organise some apple juice? I’m very thirsty.” She turned back to Círdan, gravely polite. “If you’ll be kind enough to assist me up to the pavilion, my lord?”  
  
As he left, Glorfindel heard her low voice continuing. “I was wondering if I could ask you two small favours? Firstly, is there any possibility of one of your sailors going on to Tirion with messages from me to my family? I may be exiled, but nothing was said about letters…”   
  
Glorfindel had no excuse to linger, so he regretfully had to miss hearing the second request.

~~~~

There was a festive atmosphere on the hillside overlooking Forlond. The Elves of the Wandering Companies had gathered from far and wide to watch the spectacle of the fleet of ships preparing to sail into the West. The departure itself was an affair of Men and had little emotional impact on the Elves, unlike the wonder of a Silmaril visible in daylight for the first time since the end of the War of Wrath. Watching the light on the water, they were conscious of great events in motion, driven by the will of those who dwelt in the Undying Lands and held the governance of Arda.   
  
The event also provided an excellent opportunity to spend time with family and friends within other Companies and to exchange news and gossip. This was also a rare chance for the younger Elves present to meet potential love interests or to make new friends.   
  
Two dark-haired Elves sat on a flat rock sharing bread and cheese and a few early winter apples. They also had a small flask of liquor, about whose type and origin Erestor was carefully vague. They ate in comfortable silence, Elrond sitting up very straight with his eyes fixed on the ships as they began moving out into the bay, while his companion leaned casually against his shoulder. Eventually Erestor tilted his head to look back and up at the Half-elf. "Was I right to bring you here?" he asked softly. "You weren’t as angry as I expected, but still…"  
  
Elrond looked down at him, then rested his cheek briefly against the top of Erestor’s head. The silky black hair was warm from the sun and felt strangely comforting. "What, to bring me here to see them leave? Yes, of course, otherwise it would never have been real - like my mother changing into a swan or my father piloting Vingilot through the skies each night. Just words… No, you were right. I’m sorry I shouted at you – not that it seemed to bother you much. How did you know what I needed?”  
  
Erestor smiled and shook his head. He took another sip from the flask and passed it to Elrond before straightening up and moving to sit behind him. “I didn’t,” he admitted. “It was just a good guess. Yesterday I saw Araslagor at the palace and I just – well, I usually trust my instincts, so I went and asked him if we could join them. That’s why I set such a pace last night,” he added with a grin, his deft fingers busy unfastening the untidy braid Elrond had enforced on his hair during the ride. “There was no time to make alternate arrangements should we miss them at the meeting place. I expected you to yell a lot more than you did, by the way. I certainly would have.”  
  
“Your instincts are good,” Elrond assured him, relaxing under the touch of Erestor’s confident fingers. “And there’s not much point in yelling at you. You just stand there and blink and look bored.”  
  
He watched the Elves around them, groups forming, splitting into twos and threes, reforming, and he listened to the soft murmur of many voices broken by laughter and the occasional call. They all knew who he was; he had been greeted with courtesy and then left to deal with a matter that they all respected as a private grief. These were the people he would presently be sent to live amongst as part of his training. They were, he realised, the Kindred of his choice, just as those on the ships now leaving harbour were his brother’s. It felt right to be watching the one from within the circle of kinship of the other.   
  
He looked up towards Vingilot and wondered briefly if the legendary Elf knew that his son was amongst the travellers whose way he lit, and if so whether he even cared. There was no way he would ever know, so Elrond let it go in a way he knew Erestor would be proud of when he told him later. For now, he had no desire for speech.  
  
A movement on one of the leading ships caught his eye as a banner was unfurled. Even at this distance he recognised the crest of his house, unmarked by the colours of Númenor. Elros’ final act was a silent reminder that no matter the title and history that was about to become his own, he left Middle-earth as a child of the First Kindred, Elros Eärendilion, a descendant of Thingol and Turgon.   
  
Erestor’s hands came to rest firmly on Elrond’s shoulders, steadying him even as his eyes misted and his chest tightened. As they sat watching, the soft wind that had been rising steadily over the last hour suddenly increased, filling the ships’ sails. Guided by Círdan’s experienced mariners who had been awaiting this moment, the vessels moved into formation and, in a mass of green and gold, crossed the bay towards open water, carrying the new line of Men and their King to their protected home beyond the Sundering Sea.

 


	23. Chapter 23

“I came alone, the trip was uneventful, I see no reason I should not return home in the same manner.”

The Númenórean fleet had reached the far side of the bay in a line of green and gold and was moving out to sea, and most of the guests in the pavilion were preparing to leave. Galadriel, however, remained seated, apparently enjoying the late afternoon sunshine. Although faced with the combined masculine disapproval of Círdan and Glorfindel, she was less than intimidated.

“The fact that nothing happened hardly makes it right,” Glorfindel was pointing out. “You are not travelling back alone – if no one else is available, I’ll go with you myself. And no, I know you can look after yourself. My concern is for anyone misguided enough to trouble you.”

Galadriel chose to take this as a compliment and inclined her head with a satisfied smile. “As you say, I can look after myself.”

“It would be a simple matter to arrange a small escort,” Círdan offered swiftly. “If Lord Glorfindel were also to accompany you, I’m sure everything would be in order.”

Círdan’s desire for Glorfindel’s early departure was not lost on Gil-galad, who had left the thankless task of arguing with his aunt to others and instead stood watching the ships. He turned now and favoured his foster father with an expressionless stare. “Glorfindel is expected here for dinner, Hîren. I see no reason to disrupt Master Edhelûr’s arrangements. An armed escort will be sufficient. Or perhaps we can persuade you to stay the night, Aunt?” he added enquiringly, forestalling Glorfindel who had been about to object. “I can send word to Celeborn, and Thenin can accompany you tomorrow. I imagine he’s eager to return to work.” Thenin had mentioned looking forward to a quiet day on the road, but Gil-galad decided his assistant would probably find a few hours on the water equally restful.

Galadriel’s attention was apparently wholly on the ships, but after a moment she glanced up at him and nodded. “I can hardly attend a formal dinner dressed as I am, Ereinion, but if Master Edhelûr’s lady could perhaps find me something suitable to wear…”

She would have much preferred to go home to the comfortable little house beside the ocean and the Sinda who had turned out to be her soulmate, but fondness for Glorfindel and an ingrained curiosity had persuaded her to stay the night. She had seen the intent behind Círdan’s words and had swiftly drawn her own conclusions.

Círdan, silenced by the steel in Gil-galad’s eye, remained silent as he glanced around, dissatisfied but outmanoeuvered. He suspected that Galadriel had agreed to remain purely on Glorfindel’s account, but her face was calm and unreadable. What she thought, she kept to herself. The blonde warrior had returned his attention to the sea and was watching the fleet, his eyes narrowed against the sun. He had appeared blithely unaware of any undercurrents in the conversation, but Círdan was unconvinced. He doubted that any lord of Gondolin could have survived the rumoured machinations of Turgon’s court without some degree of political awareness, to say nothing of a sense for intrigue. Those clear blue eyes, the aged Telerin decided, were less innocent, less ingenuous than most assumed. Including the King.

There was still a conversation due between Ereinion and himself regarding the reborn Elf, but he knew that this was not the right time. In fact he was beginning to wonder if there ever would be a ‘right time’.

~~~~

Master Edhelûr’s mate Emlinneth was somewhat shorter than the Lady, but she managed to find an outfit that could be altered to fit their illustrious and very pregnant guest. As Galadriel submitted to having the garments – a light gown and loose over-tunic – pinned and tacked, she chattered away like a young maid. Mainly she asked questions; about Forlond, about the guests she would meet over dinner, about the frequency of her nephew’s visits. Did he have many friends here, had it not been difficult accommodating so many guests in her home, had there been any problems or incidents of note? Had she met the Lady’s cousin, Lord Glorfindel - the sweet-faced one with the golden hair, yes? Was his room sea-facing, as was the King’s, or was he in some other part of the house?

And so on, leaving Emlinneth quite flustered by the time they parted company.

Later, as she and her husband prepared for dinner, Emlinneth admitted surprise at how sweetly approachable the formidable-sounding Galadriel - sister to the King’s father, full-blooded Noldo and Tirion-born - had turned out to be. There appeared to be at least one family trait she and her nephew had in common though, she added - the Lady was insatiably curious. Edhelûr, who had experience with the King’s apparently casual enquiries, wondered what particular item of information Galadriel had been attempting to uncover, but held his peace.

~~~~

Dinner spanned eight courses and was accompanied by a selection of excellent wines, supplied by one of Edhelûr’s senior councillors who had trade interests in the South. Gil-galad had the place of honour, while Galadriel was seated beside their host. Glorfindel found he had been placed next to Edhelûr’s daughter. His family connections were impeccable and he was unattached; he doubted it was a coincidence. He took a deep breath and set out to attempt, for the first time in his life, to be courtly and almost - though not quite - flirtatious. He had no wish to mislead her, but hoped it might allay one or two of the rumours he was sure were circulating. He was regularly amazed at the things he was prepared to try and do on Gil-galad’s behalf.

Where there were Elves there would always be song and dancing, and after dinner the guests moved out onto the lawn for this purpose. Before anyone else found the courage to approach Galadriel, Gil-galad caught his aunt lightly round the waist and, disregarding her claim to be currently neither agile nor light on her feet, insisted that she be the first to dance with him. Glancing around, she registered several disappointed expressions and chuckled sympathetically. “This will be no more than a brief escape, Ereinion. I can’t dance all night.”

He cursed mildly under cover of the music. “I feel like the prize stallion at a horse sale,” he complained. “They’ve assessed my looks, watched me eat, and now they want a chance to test my character and personal hygiene.”

“Don’t be silly, dear,” she said, giving him a wide smile that in some indefinable way reminded him of his father. “You’re High King. They couldn’t care less about your personality and how close an acquaintance you have with soap and water.

“I know,” he admitted irritably. “Which makes it worse. This is all about family advancement, gaining a crown. It would scarcely matter if I had two heads… Was it always like this? Before we crossed the sea, I mean. When I was young I was told male bound to female for love, two souls joined in bliss for eternity and all the rest. I’m starting to see that in this, as in other matters, Círdan’s views are a little old fashioned.”

Galadriel shook her head and laughed softly. “I know how you feel. I was assessed and bartered over in Tirion and later in Doriath,” she told him. “I think they believe that you merely need to get to know them and true love will follow.” She paused then added more seriously, “These aspirations always existed; ambition is older than time. Though previously I think we might have fared better at hiding the intent behind pretty words. I’ve often felt Fëanor was not utterly alien to the rest of us – he was just more open about his feelings, less inclined to hide them behind social conformity. I rather liked that about him.”

It was more common to refer to Fëanor as The Kinslayer and find no redeeming feature in him, Gil-galad mused. Usually by people who, unlike his aunt, had little personal experience of the creator of the Silmarils. “I suppose one knew where one was with him – more than likely at the point of his sword, or walking across the Ice after he burnt the ships,” he agreed mildly.

Galadriel glanced at him sharply, made once again aware that it would be hard to find someone less like her loved but easily-led brother, Orodreth. Her nephew thought for himself and was not easily shocked. When the babe was born, Ereinion’s heir and a potential High King if it was a boy – of course it was a boy, she told herself firmly, no matter what Celeborn might think – she was sure they would have little difficulty in reaching an accommodation of sorts. After all, the future was uncertain and a rival claimant, a child of his own blood, seemed less than likely from what she had observed. Elwing’s son she dismissed as politically unsuitable, made so by his share of mortal blood.

Putting aside future planning for a more suitable occasion, she smiled at him. “How will you decide with whom to dance next? Much as I enjoy having a partner taller than myself, I can hardly spend the entire evening with you. And even if I could, the scandal would be exceptional. Even for Lindon.”

“They’d be talking for weeks,” he agreed with a wry grin. “And I have a tried and tested method for dealing with this. I remain distant but courteous, dance with everyone no more than once and make a point of not remembering their names. So far it seems to have worked rather well.”

She laughed then nodded, her eyes suddenly kind. “They expect you to choose a bride and wed soon, my dear,” she said, moving closer so that her lips were near his ear, her words barely audible above the music. “But marriage – binding for eternity and producing heirs – I think is not for you. Am I right?”

Gil-galad was careful to show no outward sign of the watchful stillness that instantly cloaked him. “Time enough for that later,” he answered smoothly, aware, too aware, that if his instinct was wrong and the child she carried was a boy after all, that child and not Elrond would be the heir to the crown should he fail to provide one himself.

Fail.

As though it were a test he had to pass to prove his worth, he thought, suddenly tired of it all but knowing this self-doubt would probably follow him the length of his immortal life. He had given the future a lot of thought since that night of solitary drunken musing and he was certain that marriage was not for him, never would be. Knowing and accepting this simple truth about himself, however, did not change the fact that his predecessors would have seen it as a lamentable lack.

Almost as though she had read his thoughts she said, “Some of us are made to wed and breed, some of us not. Those who are not drawn to that life have each their own reasons – some prefer the arts of war, some prefer scholarly pursuits… and some simply find another path proves to be more suited to their nature. None of these choices is right or wrong, Ereinion. What is wrong is trying to be other than what you are.”

Could she enter his mind unnoticed, he wondered? Surely not…

They finished the dance in thoughtful silence. At the end she reached up and lightly – with complete disregard for protocol – placed a soft kiss on his cheek. “And now you need to start working your way through the hopeful daughters of Forlond, while I…” She glanced over to her left, eyes sparkling with mirth. “I need to go and rescue poor Glorfindel. Emlinneth’s daughter is displaying excellent taste in holding onto him, but very poor judgement.” Her expression sobered. “I am very fond of my cousin,” she added pointedly. “He has a generous, trusting nature. I would be extremely upset were someone to attempt to take advantage of it."

~~~~

The presence of the Elves of the Wandering Companies had transformed the hillside above Forlond into a setting for impromptu singing and dancing as they celebrated the beauty of the Silmaril which lit the sea with a brilliance rivaling that of the full moon. Food was produced, amounting to a small and varied feast, and the spirit of warmth and camaraderie was palpable. Elrond would have liked to remain longer, but Erestor insisted that, as Araslagor and his people were leaving, so too must they.

“We can go back alone later,” Elrond said in an exasperated voice, watching a small group forming around a young Elf who was playing snatches of song upon some kind of fiddle. If they started dancing, he would be sorely tempted to join them. “All we have to do is follow the road. It’s only half a day’s walk.”

Wide dark eyes flashed him an expressive look as Erestor shook his head firmly. “I’m not taking sole responsibility for your safety. Bands of unemployed mercenaries regularly attack travellers on the Forlond road. Why do you think I organised an armed escort in the first place – my personal amusement? Practice? No, we travel back in a group.”

“Coward. Where’s your sense of adventure?”

Erestor blinked, his expression deadpan. “I’ve had more than enough adventure in my life. Explaining to the High King how his cousin came to be kidnapped by renegades is more excitement than I need, thank you. Come, Princeling. Time to go.”

~~~~

The small band of Elves moved with the silence of forest creatures, following an apparently clearly defined path which was nonetheless invisible to Elrond’s eyes. His attempts to keep up with them left him feeling clumsy and aware, as seldom before, of his mortal ancestry. On several occasions Erestor had to reach out a hand and guide him through the undergrowth, showing him with quick glances where to put his feet, when to duck his head. Eventually he gave up pride and, placing a hand on the black-haired Elf’s arm, followed in his footsteps.

It was dark under the trees. They had moved away from the road, taking a straight line to the point where the escort waited, and were out of sight of both thoroughfare and sea. The night’s activity went on around them, barely disturbed by their passage – scurrying sounds and sudden movement, night birds, the hunting cry of an owl, frogs calling in some tiny puddle-kingdom, all punctuated by long stretches of silence save for the sound of the trees whispering to the night. The air was very cold, but they were sheltered to some extent from the wind that had risen when the ships had entered the bay and which had been increasing towards storm-strength since then. Tomorrow would bring rain, he could smell it on the air.

The pace was moderate and Elrond soon lost all track of time. With nothing to do but follow Erestor as carefully as possible, his thoughts began drifting from one thing to the next like a leaf on the rising wind: the evening on the hillside and the ships, how small they had seemed; curiosity about the liquor Erestor had shared with him; Laslech, how she would have liked the scents and sounds of this walk through the woods… It was a very short step from that simple fantasy to another – of Laslech, caged, frightened, surrounded by cargo or other livestock.

He closed his eyes tightly for a moment, banishing the image. It was almost easier to try and guess what Elros might be thinking, now that there was no turning back. He had no answer to that question, of course, and never would, so he banished it and tried instead to concentrate on what might have been happening at sea since nightfall. This proved a far simpler matter. They would be resting now, he decided, the men and women on board those frail-looking vessels. It had been a long day, and it was now the middle of the night. Unlike Elves, Men could seldom go through the night without rest.

How much sleep they would get with that blinding light above them was, of course, another matter

He wondered how Glori had enjoyed Forlond. He was glad Gil-galad had been there, of course, because it meant there had been at least one person present his brother would know genuinely cared for his welfare, but for the rest… A voice in his head dismissed their interest with distaste as idle curiosity of the type that encouraged the makers of the songs he so despised. He hesitated to include Glorfindel in this description – he was there at Gil-galad’s request, after all – but it had been a long day and he was tired and his opinion of the world in general was less than charitable.

Currently, he felt empty and strangely detached and his strongest emotion was a sense of tired anticlimax. The horror had happened. Elros had left; the little ships, green and gold sails flapping bravely in the afternoon sun, had sailed and now he was going back home, alone. Tomorrow would be another day, simply the next in an endless lifetime of days. No more excitement. Nothing to fear or anticipate beyond loneliness…

His foot caught on a root and he staggered slightly, but Erestor’s hand moved at once to his elbow, steadying him. There was a murmured exchange of “thanks” and “careful”, and they continued in silence. Elrond considered the Elf walking beside him, his shadowed face inward-looking and distant. The Half-elf had left naïveté behind on the night when Sirion burned and his mother had answered the call of fear. He knew his dynastic importance and he had considered the very real possibility that Erestor’s apparent interest in him was nothing more than sympathy combined with good political sense, but instinct said not. The depth of the concern and tenderness he had been shown the previous night had felt sincere, as had the morning’s interrupted pleasure.

Which, he finally realised, meant that tomorrow might well hold the promise of more than a little excited anticipation after all.

He slid his hand down Erestor’s arm and linked their fingers and his companion turned to him and smiled. In repose, Erestor’s face had the cool perfection of a sculpture created by a master craftsman, but when he smiled his features softened and warmed. The amber eyes sparkled despite the gloom and Elrond smiled back. Although he was feeling drained and emotionally exhausted, he knew this would change, that presently the pain of loss would return. He also knew that there would be someone beside him when that time came.

~~~~

Galadriel left for the ferry at first light in a manner befitting the daughter of a King, accompanied by the promised escort of warriors and with Thenin, at Gil-galad’s insistence, in reluctant attendance. Glorfindel had again offered to travel back with her, but she turned him down with a knowing look and the suggestion that the overland journey would be more to his taste. Afterwards he wondered about a brief, low-voiced conversation he had witnessed between her and Círdan, which had left her looking distinctly pleased with herself. Youthful observation had taught Glorfindel to be extremely wary of that expression.

The party that set out on the return journey was less than half the size of the one that had arrived in Forlond. They left behind those who were taking the opportunity to visit with family, give attention to trade interests or who had simply decided on a whim to spend a few days – or weeks – sampling the entertainments the town had to offer. Glorfindel rode alone, comparing the current situation to the trip down to Forlond which had been filled with good humour and friendly interaction. He missed not only Dalbros, who had remained behind to gather more information for his History, but also the young Men who had joked with the escort and generally given the journey such a feeling of high-spirited anticipation. Those same young Men were, of course, no longer with them. They were somewhere out on the sea, heading towards their new life.

About an hour after leaving Master Edhelûr’s house it began raining in a continuous, heavy drizzle that was not sufficiently unpleasant to justify taking shelter and waiting for it to lift, but which slowly soaked the riders and further dampened their spirits.

“Bloody rain,” a voice said close beside him.

Gil-galad had fallen back to wait for him. The King was wearing a thick cloak as concession to the weather, but the hood was thrown back and his hair, hanging wet and somewhat disheveled, was plastered to his head. He looked rather more cheerful than his words suggested, an improvement on his brooding silence at breakfast. Glorfindel had assumed he was concerned about Elros. They had been given no opportunity for discussion after the fleet sailed; a late night and an early rising meant they had slept apart.

Glorfindel had missed him, even though sharing the narrow bed had proved an awkward experience.

“Bloody rain, yes” he agreed with a smile, his own mood lifting. “It’s keeping everyone very quiet in comparison to the journey out.”

Gil-galad grunted agreement. “Courtiers. Scared of a little water,” he said with a scathing glance at a huddled group riding ahead of them. “Elves should accept what comes their way; sunshine, rain, snow… it should all be the same.”

Glorfindel had a sudden memory of the blinding snowstorms that used to plague Gondolin in the midst of winter, the driving winds and shoulder-high snowdrifts penning the inhabitants inside their homes for days on end. He shivered slightly. “Not snow,” he said firmly. “And given a choice, not rain either. We Noldor have become far too accustomed to the comforts of city life, I think.”

“You’re probably right. It’s not bothering them, after all.” Gil-galad gestured towards a group of Sindar who were busy picking apples in an orchard attached to the small settlement they were passing.

“They might have an order to fill,” Glorfindel hazarded. “That and fish are probably their main source of income.”

The King shrugged. “Possibly. Still, they seem not to mind.”

He rode in silence for a while, frowning thoughtfully. When they had passed the settlement’s brief stretch of cultivated land, he said, “I think we can spare an extra day or two – Lindon will hardly fall apart. I’d like to stop at a few of these places, see if they need any help. There’s a new town further up the coast that I’d like to see, too. Half the requests and complaints never reach me, you know. Thenin sees to them and just gives me verbal reports. I do my best but – I’d like to see for myself.”

Glorfindel considered him out of the side of his eye and decided Gil-galad was probably serious but not to the point of stubbornness. “Not this time,” he said, softening the words with a smile. He was still uncomfortable about contradicting the King or offering him unsolicited advice, but Gil-galad had declared himself sick to death of only hearing opinions that agreed with his own and had asked Glorfindel to speak his mind whenever he felt it was necessary. The blonde was less than happy with the request, but it was what Gil wanted and, understanding the reasons, he did his best to oblige.

Gil-galad, not yet accustomed to having his wishes denied, frowned at him. “A day or two – what possible difference would that make? Aren’t you also curious? You were full of questions about the new coastal settlements. Elrond even found you a book about them, didn’t he?”

Glorfindel nodded. “Yes, he did. And it was very interesting. And you’re right, of course I’d enjoy it. But you would need to send everyone else on ahead and keep just a few warriors with you as an escort – you can hardly expect the communities you visit to feed all these mouths. And that would mean compromising your safety.”

“Nothing’s likely to happen to me, don’t be fanciful.”

Glorfindel glanced at him, expressionless. “We used to say that in Gondolin – nothing’s going to happen. We were wrong.”

They rode on for a few minutes, each digesting this unexpected comment. Glorfindel darted a few quick, uncertain glances at Gil-galad, riding head bowed against the weather, and was finally the one who broke the silence. “You offered me a post reorganizing your army,” he said steadily. “If I were to accept, one of the first changes would be to make sure you had your own personal guard, with no responsibilities other than your safety. The war might be over but the roads are still unsafe, attacks happen…”

“Ah. So you’ve decided to do it then?”

Had he? Glorfindel supposed he had. He had been entertaining a suspicion for some time that the safety of the High King, the ultimate Elven authority on the Hither Shore, might have been the reason for Lord Námo’s decision to send him back in such an unlikely manner – not as a babe newborn in Aman, a receptacle for memories of a past life, but as a warrior at the height of his strength, with battle skills and training intact, faster, stronger, more focused than he recalled being before his death.

“I’ve given it some thought,” he answered slowly. “I can see more or less what needs to be done. It would mainly be a matter of shifting priorities and changing focus and if I’m given enough authority I can do it. There would be a few conditions, though…”

Gil-galad grunted. In his experience, there were always conditions.

“I would want a free hand, which you more or less promised me,” Glorfindel told him. “Also, I would need to be able to appoint or dismiss as I see fit while the transition is in progress. The same goes for deployment – currently you have warriors stationed in places that were probably important before the end of the war, but no longer warrant as much attention. And I’d expect to have the same authority over the Fleet…”

Gil-galad stirred at this, raising a hand to wipe away the water trickling down his face from his hair, but kept silent.

Glorfindel nodded as though the King had spoken. “I know sailors dislike taking orders from outsiders and I’m sure they’re accustomed to Círdan’s ways, but it can’t be helped. Both forces have to work together. It has to be a whole, not the Army on one side and the Fleet on the other as it is now. And finally, I want personal responsibility for your security – which means that when I say today is not a good day for an informal ramble down the coast, you will listen to me and not try and intimidate me into letting you have your way.”

“I would never try and intimidate you, Glaur,” Gil-galad stated, feigning outrage at the suggestion. He was, in fact, a little startled by this brisk, professional side to the blonde warrior. He knew that Glorfindel was an experienced commander, of course. He had led Turgon’s rear-guard against the forces of darkness, a position of huge importance. Still, Gil-galad had not expected suddenly to be faced with someone quite this proficient and - decisive.

Glorfindel gave him an amused look. “You wouldn’t? That’s as well. The longer I know you, the less intimidating you seem.” His tone softened. “I understand why you want to see these places firsthand instead of relying on reports, Gil, but why not plan it out properly first? We can come back in the spring.”

Gil-galad noted the assumption that they would do this together with satisfaction, although he did no more than grunt a non-committal response.

~~~~

Unencumbered by baggage, they made good time, barely slowing as they passed through the villages and settlements. When they reached the place where they had made camp on their journey to Forlond, Glorfindel slowed down to a walk. Under the pretense of watching a fishing boat coming in to the small harbour, he briefly acknowledged the sacred enclosure within its hedge, bowing his head respectfully, hand to heart as though he greeted one of the Mighty.

They arrived home near sunset, and those who were resident in the palace descended on the stables with a flurry of demands and needs that sent grooms rushing in all directions. Glorfindel, however, saw to his horse personally as was his habit. On the day he was deemed old enough to learn to ride, when he had been so young that even the selected pony had seemed impossibly high off the ground, his father had sat down with him and explained that the animal’s care and welfare would be his sole responsibility and should be performed as an expression of gratitude to the creature. It was not a chore to be shunted off onto a servant. The words and the implicit respect to the horse had stayed with him ever since.

When he was finally finished, the rest of the travellers had long since dispersed. He passed the kitchens en route to his rooms and paused to arrange that a plate of food be sent up to him at dinnertime. Long before he had gained sufficient confidence to mingle with his peers, he had been comfortable here. As a child, the kitchen had provided a warm, safe refuge from his father’s overwhelming expectations, and it was a setting in which he was instinctively at ease. His good natured courtesy had made him a popular visitor, and he was at once offered a cup of the head cook’s infamous chamomile tea and had to answer a multitude of questions about Forlond before he was finally permitted to go on his way.

Entering the palace via the kitchen, he decided to clean up and change and then fill the time remaining before dinner by going in search of Elrond. Gil-galad, he knew, would be working until late in the evening, catching up on those matters that would have accumulated during his brief absence. They would meet later. Meanwhile, Elrond would need to hear about his brother’s last few days in Middle-earth. Glorfindel was in two minds as to whether he should mention Elros’ conversation with Gil-galad, but decided that was a tale for the King to either share or withhold. He would confine himself to the ride to Forlond and a description of the ships.

His pack had been left outside his room as he had requested. Opening the door, he bent down to retrieve the bag and his attention was immediately drawn to a letter which had apparently been pushed to lie just inside the room. His name was written on the outside in a neat, vaguely familiar script. There was no further information. Closing the door, he stood, turning the letter over in his hand for a moment before finally taking heed of his surroundings. It was at this point that he discovered the impeccably neat room he had left on his departure from the palace had undergone a transformation. Items had been knocked over, his favourite boots were in the middle of the rug and his bed was rumpled, the cushions askew or on the floor.

With a sigh, Glorfindel put down the pack, returned the boots and cushions to their allotted places, and sat down on the edge of the bed. He then opened the note, which he proceeded to read with narrowed eyes and less surprise than the author might have anticipated. When he reached the end, he was almost embarrassed to discover he was grinning.


	24. Chapter 24

Lindon S.A. 32

‘In response to the current dispute, it is my decree that the arable land between the boundaries of these two towns will be held in common to both, the revenues to be divided equally…’   
  
Gil-galad leaned back in his chair for a minute, took a slow, deep breath and closed his eyes. He had been working steadily since arriving home from Forlond, and was starting to wonder if the pile of documents, requests and reports industriously supplied by Thenin was in fact bottomless. The Sinda had arrived home hours ahead of his King, and Gil-galad already regretted sending him back by ferry with Galadriel instead of allowing him to make the journey on horseback as he had requested.   
  
Turning to the next item, which came from a watch station high in the Ered Luin, he read it with the same thoroughness that he brought to even the most mundane administrative detail, and frowned. Unaccounted for - probably misappropriated – items were becoming too much a fact of life in the garrisons. Dipping quill in ink, he scrawled across the report in bold lettering: ‘Henceforth, to avoid a repeat of the current dispute over figures, a monthly inventory of arrows in stock is to be sent to the head quartermaster …’   
  
He had two rather arbitrary piles of documents to his left. One would be returned to Thenin as requiring further attention or the drafting of a response, while the other contained those items, already bearing His Majesty’s signature or margin comment, that were, in his opinion, ready to be dispatched. After a moment’s thought, he placed the report on this second pile, wondering as he did so if this watch station would remain operational for very much longer. He had a suspicion it would be on Glorfindel’s list of places that no longer justified a military presence. He suspected that Glorfindel would produce such a list – possibly several such lists – within a matter of days.  
  
He picked up another report, this time from a Fleet officer, which outlined a troublingly similar situation. A pattern was emerging, he realised, that he would need to mention to Glorfindel. It suggested the beginnings of a problem with discipline. This led him to wonder a little uneasily how Círdan, who controlled the Fleet, was going to respond to taking instructions from the blonde. The Telerin had originally been very much in favour of giving Glorfindel control of the army, although that had been before discovering the reborn Elf was sleeping with his foster son. Still, the King thought, a polite reminder along those lines would not be out of place.   
  
After selecting a round of bread from the plate that had been sent up from the kitchen – this one topped with his favourite combination of cheese and bacon - Gil-galad rose and strolled over to the window that looked out towards the stables. Mingled in with the moaning of the wind and the associated rattling of shutters, he could hear indistinct voices from the floor below. He smiled to himself. No one understood why he had designated the space above the palace baths for his workroom but, on the too-frequent nights when he worked late, he enjoyed the sounds of activity below. It gave him a sense of being not wholly alone.   
  
He had his own private bathroom, of course, but he rather liked visiting the baths. He made regular use of the area set aside for senior courtiers and members of his inner circle, taking the popular view that it was the ideal place to socialise and unwind. A view not shared by Glorfindel, he recalled with a fond grin. The blonde loathed the baths. Clearly feeling exposed and vulnerable, he was in and out as quickly as he could manage, barely pausing in the cold water plunge pool before hurrying to dress. Relaxing in the warm water and chatting with fellow bathers held no appeal for him.   
  
Of course, Gil-galad mused, the idea of public baths as a social gathering place was a fairly recent innovation, although he seemed to remember them existing in Nargothrond when he was small. The concept of socializing whilst wearing nothing more than a small towel – at most - was certainly new and unwelcome to Glorfindel. Unbidden, an idea fell into place. Those apartments in the palace possessing their own bathrooms were few and jealously guarded, but, with careful management, Glorfindel’s new position with the military might well serve as an excuse to insist he be given new, more appropriate quarters. With, coincidentally, his own bathing facilities.   
  
The King remained looking out across the twilit grounds, gloomy under the cloud-filled sky, and feeling rather pleased with himself for having thought of a way to procure the perfect gift for his lover. He was enjoying a small fantasy about Glorfindel’s possible response to the news when movement on the edge of vision caught his attention. He looked down, to be confronted with a sight that had become a nightly occurrence in recent weeks; Elrond, taking an early evening walk around the perimeter of the palace.   
  
With Laslech.  
  
Gil-galad stood quite still, bread raised halfway to his mouth, and stared, while his mind struggled to catch up. The last time he had seen the dog – and yes, it was quite definitely the same dog – she had been waiting to be placed on board one of the ships currently making their way to the New Land. And yet here she was, being taken for her customary walk as though nothing had happened. Elrond also gave no indication of this event being in any way unusual. His main concerns seemed to involve keeping his swirling, wind-disordered hair out of his face with one hand while controlling the lead with the other. He was looking down at the dog, and appeared to be talking to her.   
  
The High King of the Noldor remained by the window while he finished eating his sandwich, then walked slowly back to the document-laden table. Absently licking his fingers, he contemplated the work still awaiting his attention and sighed. A brief search amongst the apparent chaos finally produced the plain silver circlet he wore as a kind of badge of office while conducting the day-to-day business of rulership. Setting it firmly on his head, he went out into the winter dusk to find his young cousin and ask him a few pertinent questions.

~~~~

Sipping her tea, Galadriel recalled Celeborn’s predictably irate response upon her return with an amusement that she had been far from feeling at the time. Relief at receiving word from Ereinion regarding her whereabouts had dissipated overnight, given way to annoyed exasperation at her for leaving with no explanation for her absence beyond a brief note which had read ‘gone to Forlond, be home later’.  
  
After the briefest of greetings, they had spent the best part of an hour shouting at one another - he regarding her lack of either consideration or common sense, she concerning his apparent obsession to be a party to her every thought. Eventually he had reluctantly assured her that he was not sufficiently insecure to need to be informed of her every movement and she had grudgingly acknowledged that perhaps, in this case, a discussion would have been more appropriate than a one-line note. The resulting reconciliation had been immensely satisfying, but had left no time for her to assess her visit until late afternoon when Celeborn left to call on one of his numerous relatives.   
  
With the house to herself, she took a cup of chamomile tea and went back to curl up amongst the covers and cushions of the still-unmade bed. She reclined, propped up on an elbow so that she could contemplate recent events while observing the curious phenomenon of the rain clouds ending abruptly out over the open sea, the calm waters of which remained sunlit long after dusk covered the wet, windswept shore.  
  
Her impromptu journey to Forlond had proven even more successful than she had anticipated. Firstly, she had been able to say farewell to Elros, whose steadiness and determination so resembled his fore-mother Melian - a contrast to his brother whose demeanour was startling reminiscent to that of wayward, unpredictable Lúthien. Secondly, besides being able to confirm the truth of the rumours regarding Glorfindel and her nephew, she had, as hoped, come to a thoroughly satisfactory arrangement with Lord Círdan.  
  
As she had anticipated, he foresaw little difficulty in having her letters forwarded to Tirion. Kings generally received their mail, after all, and one of the letters in the small package she had brought with her was addressed to her father. She had been in some doubt regarding her second request, which involved sending a gift to her grandmother in Alqualondë, but the master mariner had been unexpectedly amenable.   
  
However, as with all favours, there was a price. Speaking quietly to her as she was leaving Master Edhelûr’s house to catch the ferry home, Lord Círdan told her that, after some thought and a brief conversation with Elros’ senior advisor, Silbaron, he had arranged to have the dog, Laslech, removed to the dock serving the Lhûn ferry. All that he requested was that she oversee the animal’s return to Elrond.   
  
For once in her life, Galadriel had been – temporarily - speechless. Not that she objected in principle; she had been appalled to discover the animal was going with Elros. In fact, she had seen it as one more example of life’s many sad injustices and had said as much to Círdan as they walked together to the pavilion. She recalled that he had fallen quiet, seemingly distracted by some activity on the water, and at the time she had thought nothing more of it. It now appeared that her casual observation had provided a solution to a potential problem. In the very near future, Círdan would be attempting to guide Elrond in the use of his unique abilities, but from all accounts relations between the two of them were anything but amicable. She could see how a peace offering of sorts might be very much in order.   
  
The sea-filled silence was abruptly broken by the sound of horses travelling at speed along the road behind the house, almost certainly heralding Ereinion’s return home. Galadriel stretched and, finishing her tea, smiled to herself as she pictured Glorfindel’s response upon discovering the surprise awaiting him in his room. She had searched for Elrond on her return, but no one seemed to have any idea where he was. Finally she had written a brief note and instructed Thenin to have both it and the dog placed in Lord Glorfindel’s rooms. Findel would sort it out – and Ereinion would be more inclined to believe him than Elrond, who might well be suspected of having stolen the creature.

~~~~

Elrond was known for his unpredictability, but he had an instinctive understanding for the needs of a young animal and had provided Laslech with a routine that was all but immutable. Anticipating the general direction he would follow, Gil-galad took a shortcut that brought him out through the healing wing, from where Elrond and the dog were easy to find. They had stopped in front of the new library and Elrond was sitting on one of the benches watching the sea while Laslech investigated a newly-dug flowerbed.  
  
The roar of the ocean masked the sound of Gil-galad’s approach, and he had almost reached them when the dog suddenly lifted her head to sniff the air before rushing over to greet him, trailing her lead and barking ecstatically. To Elrond’s hastily offered apology, Gil-galad made no response beyond a raised eyebrow and an absent-minded pat for Laslech. Instead, while the Half-elf was attempting to enforce discipline, the King stood watching pale light shimmering on distant water.   
  
“They’ve been granted good sailing weather,” he commented when he eventually had Elrond’s attention. “Clear skies and a following breeze. The Mighty are making sure of a smooth passage for them.”  
  
Elrond nodded. He was about to explain that he knew this as he had been in Forlond the previous day, but thought better of it. Glorfindel, who could be trusted with a confidence, had already expressed pointed disapproval at the risks involved in travelling the coast road. Instead he said, “Glori said you were catching up on work, Sire. Have you finished or are you just taking a break?”  
  
Save for the night when he had put his cousin to bed, he was still not quite ready to try his luck at calling the King ‘Ereinion’ to his face.  
  
Gil-galad nodded briefly, still gazing out to sea, ignoring the moisture-laden wind tugging roughly at his hair and clothes. “Taking a break I suppose, yes.”  
  
He turned his attention to Laslech, who had calmed down and was now sitting between them wagging her tail, then fixed the young Half-elf with a stern look. “Something you feel you want to tell me?” he asked mildly. When Elrond merely looked confused, he gestured to the dog. “Laslech. How did she get here? And please don’t tell me she threw herself over the side of the boat and swam to shore.”  
  
“Why would I say that?” Elrond asked, apparently genuinely puzzled. “Glori gave her to me, of course.” He paused, his face lighting up with amusement, “She chewed his boots, and I found a puddle in his room when I went to fetch her. I cleaned it up, sort of, but – he’s not happy, is he? It’s his own fault. He should have let her out first before coming to find me.”  
  
“Glorfindel…”  
  
Yes, that made sense.  
  
Elrond was studying him curiously. “No one told you, did they?”  
  
“No, Elrond, but then again that happens to me quite frequently. So… Glorfindel decided to return the dog to you, even though I made Elros’ wishes on the matter clear to him?”  
  
Elrond blinked – not quite as effectively as Erestor did it, he was sure, but he had been practising The Look before his mirror for the last few days. “No, of course not. Círdan arranged it and sent her back on the ferry with Galadriel. I was still…she couldn’t find me, so she left her in Glori’s room. I don’t think he had much else to do with it.”  
  
Perhaps not, the little voice that concerned itself with such things as insecurity and jealousy whispered to Gil-galad. But the warrior would have been more than willing to involve himself in a venture that would contribute to Elrond’s happiness. He frowned the voice into silence. “Let me see if I have this right. Círdan reached an arrangement with Elros and sent the dog back on the ferry with my aunt, who left her in Glorfindel’s room because she couldn’t find you.”  
  
Elrond nodded, suddenly less certain of his facts than he had been earlier. He had imagined that Círdan’s actions would be accepted as respectable beyond dispute.  
  
“I assume Glorfindel asked him to do this?” Gil-galad mused, making it sound more a statement of fact than a question.   
  
Elrond watched his cousin out of the corner of his eye, his innate caution warning him to think before he spoke. He shook his head. “No Sire, I shouldn’t think so,” he said carefully. “He told me Galadriel left him a note – I had the impression that was all he knew about it. He seemed to think it was quite funny, though… Maybe you should ask him?”  
  
Gil-galad, looking once more out to sea, nodded slowly. “Yes, yes I’ll do that. Later.” After a thoughtful pause he turned back to Elrond, his infinitely charming smile in place once more. “Meanwhile, you seem to have inherited a dog and I’m glad for you. Come and join me for breakfast tomorrow and I’ll tell you about your brother’s last few days here – whatever you haven’t already heard from Glorfindel. And you can tell me your version of what happened between the two of you and Eönwë. Elros has a tendency to understate things.”

~~~~

Glorfindel proved easy to find. He was in the courtyard, passing the time before dinner by listening to a young minstrel who was playing a light, delicate tune reminiscent of leaping water, accompanied by lyrics that spoke of spring time and new love. Gil-galad, who disliked sugary love songs, pulled his expression straight lest the musician take the sneer personally. He beckoned the warrior over and Glorfindel complied immediately, greeting him with a smile that was polite and correct, with just the tiniest hint of intimacy.  
  
“Not your kind of song, I know,” he said, indicating the minstrel. “But he has a really good voice. He’ll become more versatile with time, too. He’s still very young. Not quite Maglor, I know,” he added with a grin. “But promising. I think his name is Lindir…”  
  
Gil-galad grunted something that might have been agreement, then jerked his head towards one of the doors opening off the courtyard. “In there,” he said briefly. “We can’t talk out here.”  
  
The room appeared to be a repository for the lamps, chairs and cushions that were brought out after dinner to transform the courtyard into an entertainment and social venue. After lighting a lamp from the wall sconce, the King pushed the door half-closed and turned to face Glorfindel, who was watching him curiously.  
  
“The dog,” Gil-galad said tersely.  
  
It took a moment for Glorfindel to understand the reference, but then he smiled, relieved. He had thought the matter more serious. “Oh, you saw her, did you? I was going to tell you later. Seems that Círdan and Galadriel decided she belonged with Elrond, not Elros. When we got back I found her asleep in my room… probably from boredom after killing my favourite boots.”  
  
“I heard mention of my aunt and of Círdan, yes, but I cannot help but wonder if the idea did not originate elsewhere…with you perhaps?” Gil-galad asked bluntly. “After all, you wanted me to speak to Elros about her. At the time I thought you accepted his reason for keeping her a little too easily.”  
  
Glorfindel’s eyebrow twitched. “I had nothing to do with this,” he interrupted, his tone unusually sharp. “As I understand it, Círdan formally asked Silbaron if it would be in order to give Laslech to Elrond as a parting gift between brothers. Galadriel’s note implied that he worded it so that refusal would seem petty. I doubt anyone had time to fuss about it either,” he added, remembering the scene of controlled chaos as the travellers began embarking on their allotted vessels. “If you think I went against your decision, I can show you the letter…”   
  
His voice trailed away into insecurity and there was silence in the room save for the clear voice singing in the courtyard. The wind caught the door, pushing it open and causing the flame in the wall bracket to flicker violently. Eventually Gil-galad cleared his throat and, eyes straight ahead, muttered, “Sorry. I expressed myself badly. I just thought… It would be very like you to want to look after Elrond’s interests.”  
  
Glorfindel’s eyebrows shot up, but he kept his voice steady. “Elrond and I are friends. More than that, he is the great-grandson of my lord and has my fealty. Of course I wanted to help. As it happens I wasn’t much use, but fortunately Galadriel and Círdan were. Yes, someone needs to look out for his interests, Gil, and he has gone out of his way on my behalf more than once.”  
  
He stopped, deciding this was not an opportune moment to mention his concern about Elrond's growing relationship with Erestor, especially as he doubted the Half-elf had confided details of their visit to Forlond to his cousin. Personally, Glorfindel liked Erestor - in fact, if he was honest he was far from immune to the black-haired Elf’s charms - but his instinct was to protect Elrond from any threat that might present itself . And that included fortune hunters and the politically ambitious  
  
After another long pause, during which Gil-galad examined his fingernails and Glorfindel waited, the King said, "Glaur, you and Elrond…is there something we need to discuss?"   
  
Glorfindel stared at him, not quite sure he had understood the question. When he was certain that Gil-galad was, in fact, serious, he burst out laughing, and kept laughing until eventually he had tears in his eyes and was holding his ribs.  
  
"Glorfindel, stop it."  
  
"That's…that’s probably enough, yes… it's …not that funny…" he admitted in sobbing gasps.  
  
"Would you stop?" Gil-galad grasped Glorfindel's shoulder and shook him.   
  
The blonde, face flushed, blue eyes tearing, struggled for control. "Gil, that is ludicrous…!" he began, before he was once again overcome.  
  
The King took a deep breath and exhaled audibly, then stood back shaking his head, a smile tugging at his mouth despite his best efforts to suppress it. Glorfindel finally pulled himself together, straightened up and said, still chuckling, "Gil, in all seriousness, I have enough problems without adding a secret affair with Elrond to the list."  
  
Gil-galad gave an involuntary snort of mirth. The point was probably valid. Being Elrond’s love interest would be a full time job. In honesty, he was glad to have finally broached a subject that had been bothering him for some while. Glorfindel’s denial was sufficient. There was no circumstance under which he could imagine the reborn Elf looking him in the face and lying.  
  
"I did rather hope I was overreacting," he admitted, not quite hearing the question in his own voice. Glorfindel, however, did, and was instantly serious.  
  
"You didn’t really believe there was something going on between us, did you?" he asked, his eyes meeting Gil-galad's light, clear ones. "We talk, we share our thoughts, we solve problems together, nothing else. I'm sorry if you thought… Why would you think that, anyway?"   
  
Glorfindel was tall, but he still had to look up at Gil-galad, and something in the tilt of his head, the honest concern, made him look very young. No, not young, Gil-galad corrected himself, unsullied perhaps. Like clear spring water, untouched by any stain. He reached out, meaning to place his hand on Glorfindel's shoulder but his fingers moved of their own accord to wind gently instead in the bright gold hair. He drew a breath.   
  
"I think I spoke from fear of the possibility," he said slowly. "No matter how much we enjoy being together, no matter how well our bodies fit, in a lot of ways you are a complete stranger to me. Yet you hold no mystery for Elrond. Every time you say or do something that surprises or confuses me, I find myself thinking that he would have expected it, he would have understood. I suppose…"   
  
He looked at what he was about to say, Ereinion Gil-galad who seldom said a word without first considering it. And said it anyway, the words leaving his tongue even quicker than doubt or caution.   
  
"I suppose I’m afraid that you could never trust your heart to me, that you would want someone like Elrond, someone who understands how you think and what you want from life… Someone who would be open with you in his turn. That despite how much I love you, love alone may not be enough for you."   
  
He had said it - badly, perhaps, but he had said it anyway. Gil-galad abruptly felt an intense, vulnerable awareness of himself, right down to the weight of his braided hair and the discomfort of the silver circlet cutting into the skin above one ear. Other than being taller and more solidly built than most Elves, and possessing what he believed to be a passable sense of humour, he had always suspected there was very little else to recommend him to anyone who was neither ambitious for power nor blinded by the glamour of a crown. Up until this moment, however, he had never been called upon to put this theory to the test.  
  
He waited somewhere between hope and terror for Glorfindel’s puzzled frown to resolve itself one way or the other, waited in a room, too small and still, within which each sound was clearly defined: the rushing wind mingled with the swell of the ocean, the sputtering torch flame, the music and conversation drifting in from outside. Then Glorfindel’s face cleared and softened into a smile that Gil-galad knew well; he had seen it on the night they first made love, and the time the blonde had finally beaten him at chess and on the day he had eventually managed to disarm Glorfindel while sparring – a smile of delight, proud and yet tender.   
  
He reached out to touch Gil-galad’s cheek lightly, almost wonderingly, with the tips of his fingers and said, “You don't have to understand me, Gil. I don't even have to understand you – though sometimes it would help. I think love is usually in spite of, not because of. What we have here and now is all I need. You are all that matters, all I will ever want.”  
  
Gil-galad found himself smiling back. He twined the lock of golden hair more securely around his fingers and tugged gently, not even sparing a glance for the open door, before leaning forward to place a quick kiss on warm, responsive lips. Understanding would come in time, for them both. Right now there was love, and that was the best possible beginning.

~~~~

Very much later that same evening, Glorfindel finished putting his clothing away in the drawer reserved for him, the candlelight bathing his naked form in pale gold. He removed the final clasp from his hair and, as he walked towards the bed, shook it out around him in a shining cloak, combing it through with his fingers. Smiling, he got into bed and settled against Gil-galad with a contented sigh, his head on the King’s shoulder. Gil-galad pulled him closer and they spent a few minutes settling so that their bodies fitted together comfortably.  
  
Lying on his side, Gil-galad ran his hand lightly down over Glorfindel's chest, his fingers casually following the line of his ribs as they moved lower to the well-defined muscles of his abdomen. He lay stroking smooth flesh, relishing the feeling of the warrior’s skin which was always warm as well as being surprisingly soft to the touch. There was nothing sexual in his intent; that would follow shortly – probably very shortly, he acknowledged to himself with a grin. For this time though, he was content to lie and simply enjoy being alone at the end of the day with the person he loved.   
  
The window shook as an exceptionally hard gust of wind rattled rain and sea spray against it and, instinctively, the couple in the bed drew closer. Gil-galad slid his arm around Glorfindel's waist, drawing him closer, and his hand came to rest in the small of his lover's back. He moved it in lazy circles that took in the contrast between bone and muscle and the softly inviting curve of buttock. Glorfindel turned his head to press a kiss against Gil-galad’s shoulder before resting his hand on the King’s chest and extending a single finger to toy casually with his nipple.   
  
Gil-galad lay listening to the rain, feeling at peace with the world and very aware that he was in the one place where he could be himself without artifice or fear of judgement. No matter what the future held, whether an eternity of days that would finally see him cross the sea to the home of his father's people, or the more foreshortened ending Galadriel had hinted at, he was content. He could ask no more than what he had now, this strong, warm place that sheltered his soul as surely as the walls of his palace sheltered his body from the ravages of the storm without.  
  
Glorfindel flicked the nipple casually in a bid for attention. “What are you thinking?” he asked, tilting his head to look up enquiringly. Gil-galad responded by aiming a kiss in the general direction of his cheek, which found his mouth instead and was transformed into something considerably more thorough than originally intended.  
  
“Not thinking,” the King told him when the kiss finally ended. Glorfindel, who had turned to lie on his back, reached up to cup his cheek, smiling playfully. Eyes the warm blue of a summer sky offered tenderness and the beginnings of desire. Gil-galad paused before seeking another kiss, tracing the outline of Glorfindel’s lips with his thumb. “Not thinking at all,” he repeated with certainty. “Just savouring the moment. Just loving you.”


	25. Chapter 25

**_Epilogue_ **

~~~~

Armenelos, Númenor. S.A. 442

Four hundred years had passed since Eärendil’s son had set foot upon the soil of his new home, and the years had been kind to him, more so than to any Man of fully mortal birth. His carriage was still erect and, although his face was deeply lined, his sea-grey eyes were steady and alert. His shoulder-length hair, although now white with age, still hung thick and straight – Elven hair, as his queen had been wont to tease him. Tar-Minyatur they called him now, king of Elenna the land of the Star, the Gift of the Valar to Men. In his heart, though, he would always be Elros of Sirion, cousin to the High King.   
  
He wandered slowly about his sleeping chamber, dousing lamps as he went, picking up and examining items that were close to his heart before returning them carefully to their allotted places. There was a little filigree box containing locks of hair belonging to his queen and a beloved daughter, both dead long since; a small, exquisitely-carved quartz dragon, delicately coloured, every scale correct; a woven lap-rug, a gift from a grand daughter for his two hundredth birthday; the painting Gil-galad had given him the night before he sailed, the door to home still open to the morning…  
  
Sighing, he replaced the painting and then slowly removed the ring that Elrond had given him from his finger - the first time it had left him since that day Círdan had pressed it into his hand. Almost on a whim, he placed it in front of the picture. Vardamir, his son, might not find it, but young Aranel, his several-times great-granddaughter with her love for the small treasures with which he had surrounded himself in these last years, certainly would. She loved the ring’s story almost as much as he had as a child.   
  
He smiled now, remembering how she and her brothers, like the generations of children before them, had sat at his feet listening in open-mouthed wonder to the tale of how the Ring of Barahir had come into their family, and of Beren and Lúthien and their quest for the Silmaril. There had been other favourite stories, especially the rise and fall of hidden Gondolin, and of the great hero Glorfindel, who had bought their forefather’s life with his own - and who Elros had actually met after his rebirth many years later. And they had all loved to hear about Gil-galad and his court, and the creatures of the forests of Middle-earth…  
  
So many memories in one room. So much of the past that still spoke to him, cried out to him, especially in the long lonely years since Faengil’s passing. He felt tired beyond weariness and had felt this way for months now. His work was long since done, and he knew, as he knew his birth name, that it was time to move on, to allow the responsibility to pass to the next in his line.  
  
He had originally intended to seek out the small, windowless mausoleum set into the foot of the Meneltarna with the idea of joining Faengil there, but the thought of going alone into that cool darkness was too much for him; his heart quailed. Instead he had chosen his bedchamber, surrounded by memories, as the place where he felt best able to accept the Gift of the One, the end to labour, the time of rest.   
  
Still wearing his simple grey house-robe, and leaving only the small alabaster lamp beside the bed lit, he went to lie beneath the formal coverlet, gold silk embroidered with scarlet leaves, that he normally removed in the evening and replaced with something warmer and more homely. Not tonight, though. When morning came, he wanted them to find everything neat and right and proper, an example for those who would follow.  
  
He folded his hands on his chest and closed his eyes and concentrated on his breathing. He had no idea how to do what came next - but then again, this had been the tale of his life. Somehow he had always managed, through instinct and common sense and, surprisingly often, by drawing upon the lessons in kingship learned from Gil-galad hundreds of years ago.   
  
He had done his best for the new kingdom, for his people, for the future they had begun to build. He had often felt inadequate to the task, but over time he had developed confidence in his abilities and his people in their turn had developed confidence in him. It had not all been work and duty, either. Not long after their arrival he had wed Faengil, his support and refuge from the beginning, and she had determinedly carved out a home for her family, a place where he could put aside the crown and be himself. When the children arrived, things had finally begun to feel ‘right’. He had missed his previous life, but as time passed it had begun to seem more and more dreamlike, another world.   
  
There was no exchange of letters between him and Elrond; his brother was lost to him forever, a pain long accepted but never quite forgotten. There was news, however. Three, sometimes four times a year, letters came to him from Tirion, forwarded from somewhere within the household of the High King, delivered there, he guessed, by Elves returning home from the Land of Exile. These unsigned missives contained stories about his brother and cousins, court gossip, political developments in Lindon, events in the lives of people he had once known. They opened a window onto a world forever closed to him and, certain of their origin, he regularly blessed Galadriel for her thoughtfulness.   
  
His body was beginning to relax, his breath flowing in and out, slowing perceptibly. He could hear the rushing of blood, the beating of his heart. There seemed to be nothing else in the world, only him, only these sounds. He had planned to lie and think back over his long, full life, but even thought seemed tiring and he realised the time for such things was past. He felt a warm darkness drawing closer, not frightening as he had imagined it would be, but welcoming. A time to rest.   
  
“At the last you will lie down and sleep and, sleeping, your faer will pass to the place where the inner selves of the Second born go. No pain, just a sense of rightness.”   
  
Who had said that? Ah yes, of course, Galadriel on his last day at the palace. Galadriel who had made him a promise at that time.  
  
“When that time comes at the last, remember today and think of Galadriel,” he whispered, remembering as though it had been that morning. “I will be waiting in the shadowplace between worlds...”  
  
And she was there; power, strength and compassion, a light within the approaching dark, surrounding him with love and approval. They exchanged no words: none were required. As time slowed around him, as he felt the ties that bound him to the physical loosening, she remained; calm, steady, her presence a promise that there was nothing to fear, nothing to question.  
  
And then finally he was aware of a change, a sensation of freedom and movement as he was drawn at last towards the place he had chosen when he picked eternity for his brother and the unknown for himself. The last thing he knew as his heart faltered and his breathing stilled, was a sensation akin to a kiss between minds.  
  
And then the next stage of his soul’s journey began.

~~~~

Lake Nenuial, Eriador, S.A. 442  
Galadriel straightened up, wincing at the twinges of pain in the small of her back. Her vigil, begun the previous evening, had seemed to last no more than a few short hours, yet she had returned to dawn light and the sounds of birdsong and morning voices. She looked down at the hollow in the rock which, when filled with clear lake water, was proving a useful tool for expanding and directing her gift of Sight. The Emyn Uial were reflected back at her, snow-capped the year round; the silent bedchamber half a world away was no more.   
  
It was not until she raised a cold hand to tidy back her hair that she discovered her cheeks were wet and realised she was crying. She sat for a few minutes, her face in her hands, and allowed herself the rare luxury of tears. She had kept the promise made four hundred years ago. She had watched with Elros at the end, and the soul whose passing she had witnessed had more than earned this farewell offering. Finally, the time for crying past, she wiped her face with the hem of her gown and prepared to return to the everyday world. As she was about to rise, the water rippled of its own accord and she waited, disciplining herself to stillness, as a new vision slowly appeared.   
  
In place of the bedchamber in Númenor, she now saw a man, his hair and beard frosted with age, lying upon a stone bier. His hands were clasped across his chest, his eyes were closed. Beside him stood a woman, Elven fair, a golden circlet on her dark hair. For a moment Galadriel thought she was looking back through time at Lúthien, but the resemblance, though strong, was not absolute. And Lúthien, child of the starlight that she had been, would never have worn gold. The woman was weeping, pleading with the man who appeared to be in the act of giving back the Gift of Life, even as Elros had…  
  
A crash and a shriek followed by laughter drew her back with a start to the world around her, and when she had gathered herself again the image had vanished. She waited for a few minutes to be certain there was no more, then rose carefully, her legs unsteady after so many hours of kneeling on the cold ground. Slowly and with quite un-Elven stiffness she made her way down from her glade, the one place where she was never disturbed.  
  
The path she followed brought her out near the cluster of houses on the shore of Lake Nenuial where she and Celeborn with their unlikely community now dwelt. They were an eclectic crowd - followers of her late brothers, refugees from Doriath, a few Nandor and a number of Silvan Elves. There was even a small settlement of Men further along the shore, who looked to the strange though unarguably royal couple for leadership. What they all had in common was a spirit of adventure and a yearning for some place where they could feel they belonged.  
  
The noise that had startled her seemed to have been caused by a runaway calf, one of a small herd of cattle kept primarily for milk. Its capture was being overseen by Celebrían, the sweet, dutiful, though lamentably ungifted girl child who should have been a son and upon whom Celeborn doted. The dog at her heels barked a greeting – there was always a dog, ever since the day several hundred years ago when Elrond had given a puppy from his pet’s first litter to his toddler cousin as a begetting day gift.   
  
Alerted by the barking, Celebrían turned, offering the habitually uncertain, ever-hopeful smile she kept solely for her intimidating mother. She spoke, but the veil between time and space was still fragile after the all-night vigil and, without warning, the Sight returned and Galadriel, caught up in a wave of inner visions, felt as thought the world had fallen away beneath her feet.   
  
Unbidden, the future crept up beside her to whisper softly in her ear, sending a shiver of ice down her spine. For a moment she saw her daughter sailing out from Mithlond under leaden skies, small, sad and broken, alone at the railing, followed by a whirling kaleidoscope of blood and horror and fire and war. She saw once again the woman of Lúthien’s line and the king of Men and heard the sound of her own voice whispering an apparently meaningless sentence over and over again.   
  
And then it was gone, leaving her breathless and shaking.  
  
Taking a deep breath, Galadriel forced herself to stop staring at Celebrían, who was moving towards her in concern. Managing a smile, she drew her daughter into a rare hug, resting her cheek against fine, silver-blonde hair. Every ounce of maternal instinct in her was screaming at her to do something, but, although frustrated by her impotence, she knew that whatever threatened Celebrían would only be made clear in its own time. For now, all she could do was try to keep her child safe for as long as possible. A good first step, she wryly acknowledged, would probably be to accept that fate had seen fit to send her a daughter instead of the politically desirable son and begin to treasure her accordingly for who she was.  
  
Stepping back, she put an arm around her daughter’s shoulders and looked about, seeking someone reliable to entrust with a letter to the High King, bearing news of the passing of the first king of Númenor. The words in her vision came back and lodged in her mind, where they would remain, returning periodically to tease her until the day finally arrived when all things were at last made clear.  
  
“And so the end begins.”

~*~*~*~

alu

~*~*~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta: Enismirdal. Occasional chapters: Fimbrethiel, Ilye Elf, Red Lasbelin

**Author's Note:**

> Primary beta: Enismirdel  
> Beta at various times:  
> Fimbrethiel  
> Ford of Bruinen  
> Ilye Elf  
> Red Lasbelin


End file.
